


Vanishing Point

by masqvia



Series: 2040 [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: CyberLife ending, F/M, OC-centric, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, did I mention this is AU territory?, happy ending at the end of the tunnel but it's a long way down, hi i'm RK900 the Jason Bourne sent by CyberLife, political machinations, romance later we gotta Build Up That Plot first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-06-01 09:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15140150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masqvia/pseuds/masqvia
Summary: Nearly two years after the violent uprising in Detroit is quelled and all current android models are destroyed, CyberLife attempts to gradually rebuild their customers' trust. It’s an uphill battle from the start — fear and paranoia all but dominates the conversation surrounding android reintegration in society.While Detroit faces intense political pushback, New York City is the first to test the waters again. A detective stumbles on a series of conspiracies.





	1. for want of a nail

**Author's Note:**

> • written by someone who has watched way too much westworld and played too much deus ex  
> • 100% inspired by [this piece of artwork](http://lewislazyaf.tumblr.com/post/174755530912/rk900-wip-wanted-to-draw-this-evil-boy-%EB%84%A4) because i'm thirsty af for this mf  
> • this is [the theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzhq-D8aJN8) for the entire fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While they wait for CyberLife to arrive, RK900 is more than content to remain silent, not at all interested in commenting on the range of emotions it no doubt picks up flickering across her face.
> 
> Sam, meanwhile, wonders just what kind of shit she’s gotten herself into this time.

**JUNE 3, 2040  
9:14 PM **

“So I’m the guinea pig, then.”

Chief Byers sighs. “You’re levelheaded is what you are. Half the precinct is ready to shoot them as soon as they so much as twitch without orders.”  
  
“I’m nervous around them too, chief. And you know my—”

“—history with them. Yes, it's why I’m giving you this assignment. You won’t blow its head off without sufficient enough reason to do so.” He then gestures to the bustling bullpen the floor below them. “Look, Sam — everyone is still on edge. We’re all up to our necks in work and the last thing we need is a multi-million-dollar lawsuit coming down on the department from CyberLife for some damaged property.”

“Somehow, that seems like a cake walk if this all goes sideways again.”

“It won’t,” he says firmly. “They’ve guaranteed obedience and the government wants to start cycling androids back in—”

“You don’t believe that.”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe.” Byers gives her a reproachful look, as though he expected better. “The mayor’s on board with the decision so our hands are tied here.“

Dispensable. That’s what he won’t say, really. She’s just talented enough to take the task and just unremarkable enough to safely lose if the worst happens — because if the worst _does_ happen, the media will enthusiastically blow up her death.

She’s the perfect candidate regardless of which way the wind blows, and at one point, she might’ve bristled and thrown a fit at being used like a chess piece. Nowadays she’s since learned that sticking her neck out in outright defiance is an exercise in futility, at least when the outcome is so undeniably assured.

“You’ll be fine,” Byers reassures, everything but oblivious to the discontent simmering in her. “This model line is the _only_ one which never deviated, and its predecessor put down the uprising in Detroit. It’ll listen to you.”  
  
Sam doesn’t waste her breath arguing. Him asking is just a courtesy; she’s stuck with the job regardless. “How long is this assignment?”

“Four months minimum.” He immediately raises a hand to placate her, seeing her expression. “I know, I know—“

“Four _months?_ ” She repeats incredulously, leaning back in her seat. “You just said we’re up to our necks. You can’t afford to sideline me with this.”

“I’m not; I’m still expecting you to do regular work. Which, by the way — I’ve got another thing I want you to look at. I’ll send it to your terminal.” He pauses, then glances at his screen. “And, you know what? This model line was originally designed for police work. Have it help you.”

At her dubious look, Byers gives another deep, chest-shuddering sigh. “Or order it into stand-by mode if you need to. Hell, keep it at CyberLife until shipments come in and it’s necessary to bring it out. Whatever you gotta do to.”

Sam runs a hand through her hair, feeling it tangle around her fingers. Her leg jitters up and down while she sits. “When do I start?”  
  
“It’ll arrive tomorrow morning. CyberLife should be forwarding a manual for it — or specs, the like — within a few hours. I’ll make sure you get it.” He gives her a thankful, relieved look over his desk as she straightens out from her chair. “Thanks. I knew I could count on you to handle this. And hey, Sam?” He calls as she’s halfway out the door.

“Hm?”

“Memorize that deactivation code.”

She plasters a placid smile on her face and merely offers a brief, “Sure thing, boss,” on her way out.

As if some voice-command or series of numbers is going to stop a machine hellbent on completing a task.

 

. . .

 

The report pings her terminal four hours later. She’s in the middle of skimming through the case files that Byers sent her, so deep in thought about connecting patterns and chewing on a nail that the small noise makes her jump and bite down harder than necessary.

Wincing at the sharp spike of pain, she glances about the hall. It’s dark and nearly empty save for a handful of other officers pulling a late shift. Their desk terminals emit a dim glow.

Exhaling slowly, Sam runs both hands down her face, then reaches up to rub the space between her eyes, trying to stave off a stress-induced headache. The endless list of missing person reports gives her an excuse to ignore what’s coming up, but there’s no escaping the unpleasant thoughts and worst-case scenarios brewing in her mind.

Out of the corner of her eye, the email alert blinks incessantly on her screen. The clock near it reads 1:15AM.

Byers told her the android would arrive at ten. She _could_ head home, but she’d get four hours of sleep at most. Maybe three, since she has to be back here by six.

Or she could get none at all because of the nerves lighting up her skin.

Sam leans forward, crosses her arms on her desk and rests her head. Closing her eyes, she remains still for a solid five minutes, listening to the occasional shuffling of the other officers still in the building and the comforting sound of her steady heartbeat.

Eventually, she straightens and rolls her shoulders.

The break room is quiet when she enters, save for the low murmuring of the 24-hour KNC news channel playing on the wall. They prattle on about the latest public statement from CyberLife, something about their three-year plan to fully and carefully reintegrate their androids amongst the public again — with reassurances and platitudes sprinkled in.

Sam half-listens while the coffee brews.

“—since the unprecedented events in Detroit. Faced with pressures from both the public and private sector, CyberLife has been mired in seemingly endless litigation.”

“Good,” she mumbles.

“—have, however, surprisingly reached an agreement with New York City. Industrial androids are slated to be reintroduced within the week, kicking off the company’s first attempt since 2038. Additional precautions through executive order have been placed by President Warren as she's yield to pressure from the public, likely in an effort to appease her base and maintain her position for re-election later this year. According to forecasts within the past two months, however—“

The coffee machine pings. Sam throws in two sugar cubes to her mug, stirs, and spares the TV another glance. The CyberLife Headquarters in Detroit flashes briefly across the screen, before a series of images from November 2038 play in continuity.

“—alongside promises that what happened in Detroit will never happen anywhere again.“

She shakes her head and turns on her heel. Nothing but pretty words and hollow assurances.

 

. . .

 

She only starts to regret her decision to remain at the station when she feels the headache slowly inch towards debilitating territory as the night drags on. The moment 10AM rolls around, however, her exhaustion all but evaporates, solidly replaced with the familiar warmth of adrenaline pumping in her veins and the unpleasant knot of anxiety churning her gut.

The android standing by the ceiling-high window at the entrance of the building is the epitome of immaculate. Its jacket and high-collar shirt are neatly pressed, the black-white contrast of its attire gives it a clean, professional look, and the sunlight from outside merely accents the sharp edges.

The moment its eyes land on her, though, her fingers twitch for her gun. She feels like it's staring right through her.

“Hello,” the android greets politely as she approaches, standing shoulder-width apart and arms folded behind its back. “I’m the RK900 model sent from CyberLife. Your executive officer should have been briefed preceding my arrival.”  
  
“Yes,” she says, eyeing it warily but maintaining a semblance of professionalism despite her heart hammering in her chest. “You’ve been assigned to me. Do you have a name?”  
  
“RK900 will suffice.”  
  
“Alright. Hello, RK900. I’m—“  
  
“Detective Samantha Hale.”

“...Yes,” she says again after a pause, uncertain of how to proceed. The spec report said the RK900 has facial recognition software included in its modules, among a dizzying assortment of other cutting edge programs. Having it used on her mid-conversation is only slightly weird, and leaves her briefly fumbling through typical social protocol.

Then part of her wonders why she’s going through a proper introduction with it. Some sort of subconscious appeasement tactic, maybe? If she was nice to it, it wouldn’t shoot her on the off chance it _did_ deviate?

“Detective Hale?”

Her attention snaps back to its face. RK900 stares expectantly at her.

“Sorry. Welcome to New York, RK900. Please follow me.”

It’s hard to ignore the feeling of eyes on the back of her head, and exceedingly difficult to ignore the stares of other officers as they head upstairs and cross the NYPD’s massive work space. Some are outright hostile with their glares, some take to flatly ignoring its presence, but a thick layer of tension and a hush covers the main floor the second they enter.

Her coworkers are acting like there’s some sort of specimen on parade, as though they’ve never seen an android at the station — and she can see some of them also inch towards their firearms.

_Begin, day one_ , she thinks tiredly.

Thankfully, the chief must have either been watching the situation or noticed the rapid atmosphere shift from his office. “Get back to work,” Byers barks, swinging open the glass door of his office. “This isn’t high school, folks. Quit staring. Hale, come here.”

The android trails behind her like a shadow up the steps to Byers’ glass cubicle, and shuts the door behind them.

“Sit down,” Byers tells her.

She does so and the RK900 takes a spot behind her. “Don’t stand over my shoulder,” Sam says immediately, tensing. “Please.”

It moves to the space between her and Byers’ desk, facing both of them, back to wall. “Is this acceptable?”

The immediate compliance relaxes her slightly and some tension leaves her shoulders as a result, but Byers answers for her before she can open her mouth.

“It’s fine,” he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Listen, Hale. The first of CyberLife’s industrial androids are arriving at JFK at the end of the week. You need to be there so this android can double-check them before release.”

“Alright,” she says, frowning, not sure why he called her up here just to say that. She’s read over her assignment in full. “I’ll be there.”

“And you’ve read Warren’s executive order, right? It can’t go where you aren’t. No exceptions.”

“Yes, sir.” Again, she already knows this. Those that hadn’t been scared shitless by the uprising had thrown a fit at having their personal androids removed.

Byers gives her a level stare across his desk before glancing at the bustle of activity to their left. She follows his gaze and catches some officers snap their attention back to their terminals, clearly trying to look like they weren’t paying attention to the office.

Something sour settles in the back of her throat as it clicks. “And you want me out of the station because of it. To avoid any accidents, I’m assuming.”

Byers gives her a wry, albeit relieved smile. “Sharp as always. I’m sorry, but yes.”

RK900 speaks up, “That would be an inefficient way of going abou—“

“I’m not asking for your opinion.” The undertone of hostility in Byers’ voice spikes her stress right back up, his response so immediate like he had been _waiting_ for the chance.

There’s an imperceptible twitch in RK900’s jaw. “Understood. My apologies.”

_Don’t antagonize it_ , Sam thinks warily before dragging her attention back to Byers. “I’m assuming I can continue working remotely, at least.”

“You’re free to come and go — just keep it gradual. Work from home if you need to. You’ve got access and I already gave you your secondary assignment.” His expression softens. “And I promise this is temporary, Sam. Can I count on you?”

She barely resists sighing. “...Of course.”

This time, the tired smile he gives her is genuine, and some buried part of her feels guilt over the amount of resentment she holds towards her chief.

 

. . .

 

Downtown Manhattan is a hub of activity, sidewalks bustling and endless billboard advertisements assaulting her ears and demanding her attention. Even with the advent of self-automated cars, the honking of taxis and trucks coming and going continues to persist.

The silence from the RK900 at her shoulder is…

Well, if she wasn’t already keyed up, she could almost forget it’s there. It doesn’t attempt to strike up idle conversation with her as they walk. When she stops and waits for the crosswalk to turn green, it stops right beside her, but carefully keeps itself within her line of sight as she asked earlier.

Sam’s not sure how to take its disinterest in her. On one hand, she doesn’t care, because there’s something to be said about professional distance making a job easier. On the other hand, the stark indifference it displays in both her and its environment is unnerving.

A human would’ve commented on something by now. The androids of two years ago would’ve commented on something by now — if only to fill in space because they’re programmed to know that silence has a way of making humans uncomfortable. She’s almost inclined to believe that this one wasn’t given that line of code, but then remembers reading that it’s CyberLife’s most advanced model, so of course it does. The alternative is that it doesn’t care. She’s not sure why that both makes her frown and shift uneasily.

Sam’s so used to its silence that when RK900 _does_ speak, it takes her a moment to realize that it’s speaking to her and that she’s been staring, and it’s staring right back at her. “The crosswalk has turned green, Detective Hale.”

“Oh.” It’s difficult to hide the flinch at being caught staring, but she moves past it. “Sorry.” 

The hair on the back of her neck stands up as the feeling of being watched settles in, and she suddenly finds herself wishing for the disinterest to come back.

It’s two minutes before she cracks under the silence again, nervously reaching up to rub the back of her neck. “Why’d CyberLife send you now if the first shipment is at the end of the week?”

“To allow whomever is assigned me to grow accustomed to my presence,” RK900 says as they pass by a street vendor — who promptly flounders and drops the food they’re cooking.

Sam winces, but keeps walking. “It’d be easier to ‘grow accustomed’ to you if we spoke. At the very least, talking to you will let me gauge what you’re normally like, so if you happen to—”

“Deviancy is not a concern. There are numerous guards implemented in my program against acting outside of established protocol.”

“Reassuring, but I’ll believe it when I see it. That’s the same line CyberLife gave us before, you know. And look how that turned out.”

“What happened in Detroit was a regrettable turn of events that CyberLife deeply apologizes for.”

She snorts. “I heard that public statement, thanks. Word for word. And the one after that, and the one after _that_. CyberLife knows how to craft a pretty public address, but I’m more interested in seeing results.”

“A fair assessment.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, glancing away. “If only everyone else saw it that way.”

They stop at another crosswalk, waiting for the light to change once again and she catches the people around them staring. They’ve been given a wide berth ever since they exited the police station. She can’t help but idly wonder if it’s their own fear, the android's imposing aura, or her uniform and firearm that has them keeping their distance.

Typically it’s an observation that flies right by her, but now she’s sorely aware of how many live in the city and finds herself wondering why her home was chosen as CyberLife’s first attempt. Why not Boston? Philadelphia? Hell, Chicago? She doesn’t want anything bad to happen _anywhere_ , but there’s just so much _life_ in NYC. It is, and has been, the country’s most densely populated city for a long time.

Trying to reintroduce androids here first is like throwing a match into a pile of hay.

“Why’d CyberLife seek an agreement with the mayor here?” she asks, breaking the silence again.

“I’m not granted access to the deliberations made by the company board.”

“Can you speculate, then?”

“Yes, but any conclusion I reach will provide little insight due to a lack of data to analyze.”

“So you have no idea.”

“I believe that’s what I just said.”

Talking to this android is like pulling teeth. She’s nearly ready to give up trying to spark a flow of conversation when it opens its mouth again.

“Your file tells me you’ve never worked with an android partner before.”

She shrugs, slightly uncomfortable at the change in topics. “I just find a human to be better company.”

“Yet an android is capable of processing quicker and retaining more information.”

Point? Missed. “Sure, but being an officer isn’t all about ‘processing.’ Following your gut instinct is part of it, too.”

“I’m not programmed to act without significant consideration.” Then, “Will this be a problem?”

Sam blinks. Somehow, hidden among its indifference, she senses a hint of distaste directed towards her. RK900’s gaze slides to meet hers when it notices her staring again, and the height difference between them only adds to her feeling of being judged.

It’s literally looking down its nose at her. Her hackles rise.

“You’re just another job,” she tells it, voice clipped. “So you needn’t worry about any conflict of interest that arises.”

Suddenly, it feels like it’s actually _looking_ at her, and it’s such a subtle sharpening of focus that she nearly misses it. “Please excuse my previous assumption, then.”

Already on edge, the sweltering June heat only fuels her irritation. Heatwaves are visible along the asphalt, and the weather report she remembers hearing this morning said it’s only going to get worse. She can already feel the unpleasant trickle of sweat down her neck, her uniform sticking uncomfortably to her back, and boy, what she wouldn’t give to be allowed to wear shorts while on duty.

RK900, meanwhile, shows no indication of being bothered by the weather despite wearing pants, a high-collared shirt, and a long-sleeved blazer. Just looking at it spikes her temperature up a couple degrees.

Didn’t androids also overheat?

Sam grabs her hair and twists it until it’s in a messy bun on her head. Some blond strands fall out within seconds, too short to remain in the hair tie, but the slight breeze from cars going past them finally reaches the back of her neck. It’s minimal, but it helps.

“I’ve irritated you,” RK900 speaks up a minute later, having observed her jerky movements.

“An astute observation. Your fancy programming tell you that?”

“That was not my intention.”

She sidesteps someone too distracted by their phone, careful not to bump into them. “Does intention matter if the result stays the same?”

“As a police officer, I would hope you know the difference.”

She comes to a dead halt in the middle of the sidewalk. RK900 stops half a second later, still in her line of sight. It raises a single, perfect eyebrow, angled _just so_ that she nearly does a double-take at the unspoken prompt. If she wasn’t so familiar with passive-aggressive behavior, she’d be convinced this is all in her head.

Sam inhales deeply. Counts to three. Exhales. “You’ve been given clearance to access my terminal at the station. Can you pull it up from here?”

RK900’s LED briefly pulses yellow. “Yes.”

“Good. Can you walk, talk, and read at the same time?”

This time, the look it gives her is borderline droll. “Yes.”

“Good,” she says and resumes walking, barreling past its attempt to fish a reaction from her — because that’s exactly what that interaction just was. She’s all but convinced now that the RK900 is testing her just as she’s testing it, subtly prodding while their dynamic is still being established.

“Pull up the files regarding the string of missing persons this year in Clinton. First one is dated January 7th. Then pull up the folder I’ve compiled relating recent reports of break-ins in the same district.”

“You’re not currently assigned to an investigative task,” RK900 notes, idly fixing its left blazer cuff as they cross another street.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Did you miss what Byers said earlier? I’ve got a secondary assignment besides you.”

“It’s not reflected in your file.”

“Then the chief probably hasn’t updated it yet. What’s the problem?”

“CyberLife has tasked me with observing and correcting signs of android deviance. Offering case work assistance—“

“Is still part of your programming. Or am I wrong?”

“No. Those protocols have merely been assigned as a secondary objective.”

“Well, there’s no other androids for you to analyze or ‘correct’ just yet. Personal androids are still prohibited, and the first industrial shipment isn’t until the end of the week. So unless you’re fine with remaining idle until then, you’re more than welcome to return to CyberLife while I do my job.”

RK900 stands slightly closer to her now, likely so neither of them need to raise their voice over the sounds of cars driving past them. Sam glances over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow, still waiting for a response — and the subtle role reversal from mere minutes ago fills her with a vicious satisfaction.

The reaction is nearly imperceptible, but this time she’s ready for it, and catches a tiny twitch in the RK900’s lips and something akin to wry amusement flashing behind its eyes.

“What would you like me to investigate, detective?”

 

. . .

 

As far as first impressions go, it isn’t the complete train wreck she was somehow expecting it to be. RK900 is practically her shadow, sticking to her side like glue, the very image of professional and despite its subtle prodding — which she is _so_ going to report on later, because what the fuck, CyberLife? — it follows each of her orders to a T.

The sun is merciless as the day drags by and Sam ducks into the first deli store the moment they turn on 8th Avenue. Thankfully, the store is empty, and an enthusiastic holler greets her the second she opens the door.

“Oi, Hale! Been awhile since—” Dishes clatter all over the floor and the sound of glass breaking echoes off the walls. “The fuck is that?”

“Police work,” she yells back over the whirl of the old fans attached to the windows, swinging the door closed behind RK900 and rattling the bell above them. “Don’t worry about it, Jones!" She holds a palm out at RK900, whose attention has completely zeroed in on the shop owner. “Wait here, please.”  

When she turns, she sees why the android’s gone stiff: Jones has pulled out the shotgun from under his register, knuckles tight on the handle, all but ready to fire.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it?” He repeats from down the aisle, sputtering. “You forget about what went down at Times Square?”

“Jones.” She strides towards the end of the counter, leans across on her elbows and hisses, “I was there, remember?”

“Which is why I’m even more concerned about—” He gestures excessively at the android standing by the door.

“I know. But put the gun down.”

“Are you kidding me? That looks like it belongs straight out of—”

“Jones.”

“—Tell me you’ve got your gun on you, ‘cause if not I can take care of it right n—”

“ _Jones_ ,” Sam slams her hand on the glass and he immediately pays attention. “It’s work. I’ve got it handled. Please, _please_ don’t drop a million dollar fine on my head. Seriously, I can’t afford it.”

“You know what you can’t afford? Getting shot again, kid. And that _thing_ —”

“Has been assigned to me. I promise, I’ve got things handled.”

“Yeah, heard that line before.” He glares at RK900 and gestures with the shotgun. “No funny business, you hear?”

RK900’s attention lingers on the shotgun a second more, shoulders stiff, and its gaze briefly flickers to her before complying. It stands like an imposing, motionless sentinel by the front door.

Jones squints at the android a second longer, then returns the gun to its strap under the register. “Christ,” he mutters. “Alright, start talking,” he orders her.  

“What’s there to say? You heard the mayor’s announcement. And CyberLife’s all over the news, as usual.”

“Doesn’t explain your involvement. Can’t they have one of their employees lead it around?”

Sam snorts and accepts the water bottle he hands her across the counter, wondering just how wrung-out she must look that he did so without her asking. “Thanks. And, no. You know how these things go. I just pulled the metaphorical short stick.”

“Reason why I left the force to begin with,” he mutters while she chugs the water. “Little people like us are nothin’ but fodder. They thank you up and down for a job well done, then leave you high and dry the second shit hits the fan. You know if you need me to go talk some sense into Byers—”

He’s cut off by the back door chiming. One of his delivery regulars sweeps in, hauling a crate on his shoulder. It’s a man she recognizes — Wade, if she remembers right — having seen him helping around the store pretty often.

“I’ve got the stuff you asked for, boss. Sorry for being tardy. Traffic’s been backed up with construction on the outer beltway. As usual,” he tacks on jokingly.  

“Nah, you’re fine.” Jones jabs a bony thumb over his shoulder. “Just set it down in the same old spot. I’ll do inventory later.”

“Got it,” Wade says. He sends Sam a friendly, open smile once he spots her, then freezes in place when his attention slides past her.

Oh.

“Don’t worry about it,” she reassures, lowering the bottle in her hands and straining to return his smile. Is this what she has to look forward to for the next four months? Working from home was growing more and more tempting. “The android’s with me, Wade.”

“...Yeah?”

“Mhm,” she hums, “New assignment. But you needn’t worry, it’s—” And then out of the corner of her eye, she suddenly sees RK900 stride towards her, blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on Wade. Tension locks up her shoulders and Jones’ hand snaps to rest on the shotgun under the register.

RK900 stops right by her, LED flickering as it processes something.

“What are you doing?” She prompts carefully, resting her own hand on her firearm.

“I’m gonna get those other crates,” Wade says, taking a single step back, rocking on his heels. “There’s about two more left in the truck.”

“Thanks, Wade,” Jones mutters, eyeing the android beside her warily. “Lemme know if you need help with ‘em.”

Wade takes another step back, nodding stiffly. “Sure thing.”

“What’s your issue?” Sam hisses, stepping between them. “If you’re just gonna start scaring people—”

RK900 opens its mouth—

—and Wade suddenly bolts out the door, nearly ripping it off its hinges in his haste. Sam’s stomach hollows out from under her in the same second that RK900 snaps forward like a bullet, maneuvering around her with such ease it’s like she hadn’t been standing there to begin with.

She and Jones stand slack-jawed in stunned silence, staring at the swinging door.  

Then she’s moving, sprinting after them, the heat from outside hitting her face like a physical force. She smacks into the railing on the steps, abdomen throbbing with the impact, and sees the two of them all but flying down the back alley. Wade’s delivery truck sits abandoned to her left, blinkers flashing uselessly in the street.

Sam hops over the railing and sprints after them, heart pounding a mile a minute. “RK900! Stop!”

It ignores her.

She spits out a curse. The first day. The first _fucking_ day and there’s already issues.

The two take a sharp left in the alley ahead of her and she nearly runs face-first into the bricks from her own momentum, unable to turn as quickly as they do. The ease in which Wade and RK900 maneuver around obstacles sparks an unpleasant, wiggling suspicion in her head.  

Wade kicks off against the wall further down and jumps an upcoming fence, spending half a second pulling himself up—

—and RK900 effortlessly hops onto a nearby dumpster, grabs the ladder of the fire escape above it and vaults over the fence completely. It lands a foot ahead of Wade, then smoothly twists and pins him against the wall with an elbow jabbed to his throat in the same motion. Wade claws at the android, trying to pry the limb away. RK900 grabs Wade's hand and slams the limb to the wall space by Wade's head, its synthetic skin rippling back in the process.

She’s still too far away. “RK900, I said stop! Now!”

There’s the slightest, briefest pause as RK900 leans towards Wade, inches from his face, eyes narrowing as if looking for something. Wade knees the android in the chest and ducks under its arm, only to be grabbed by the back of his shirt a second later and thrown onto the ground. RK900 is on him within moments, pinning the man’s legs with a knee and restraining his hands.

“Please, don’t!” Wade yelps. “Stop! I said I don't know where _—_ ”

Sam skids to a stop and draws her gun, taking aim.

RK900’s right hand presses against the man’s chest and Sam just about pulls the trigger, a hair’s breadth away from putting a bullet in the android’s head, but the nagging suspicion from before makes her hesitate. The split second is enough, and she almost forgets to breathe as RK900 snaps back its arm, fingers drenched in a blue liquid, a cyclical looking component grasped firmly in hand.

Silence descends on the alley. The sweltering June sun feels miles away. Like staring down a tunnel, all of her focus is narrowed on Wade’s motionless body further down the path.

Sam feels like she’s in a daze as she watches RK900 straighten up to carelessly toss the biocomponent to its feet.

Cautious, as though she’s approaching a wild animal, she takes slow steps towards them. Her gun remains gripped firmly between her hands. 

“I’ve notified CyberLife of this incident,” RK900 says once she’s within speaking range despite being on the opposite side of the fence. “A team will be by shortly to retrieve this model. Please remain here until they arrive.”

Her tongue feels thick in her mouth, reflecting the sudden block of lead settling in her stomach. “How did… how did you know Wade was an android?”

RK900 idly fixes its blazer cuff and attire, having been pulled on by Wade’s attempts to pry loose, its movements calculated but smooth. “The deviant’s initial reaction to me fit within the expected range of a distressed human, but it then exhibited increasingly abnormal behavior the longer it stayed — without the equivalent human physiological response.”

_Jesus._  “You're able to read such minute details?”

“Yes. Despite similarities, an android body and a human body are not the same.”

Sam’s grip tightens on her gun as she stares at Wade, an unsettling amount of blue staining the front of his shirt. She’s not sure if the bile rising up her throat is from seeing someone she knew have their heart ripped out in front of her, or from seeing someone she knew turn out to be an android living right under her nose. 

“Wade ran because he—it... knew what you would do if it were discovered,” Sam murmurs, unable to tear her gaze away.

“Correct,” RK900 says, blue eyes sliding to her. “Deactivation was guaranteed.”

The entire encounter took less than three minutes. The initial exchange with Wade at the store took less than one. She, meanwhile, has known about Wade for _months_ and was none the wiser. The amount of time he— _it_ , damn it—had been given free roam in the city all but locks her heart in a vice grip. 

“How long did it take you to spot the difference?”  
  
“Thirty-two seconds since it entered. With additional information, I could have processed quicker.” RK900 sounds almost displeased at its own performance, eyes narrowing at the body as though the fact it didn’t recognize the deviant immediately is somehow a flaw.

This isn’t the turn of events she was expecting — far from it — but now that she’s been given a second to process, she remembers the other factor still keeping her on edge. She adjusts her grip on her gun. “You didn’t obey my order to stop.”

“If I were to stop and explain the situation to you, it would’ve gotten away.”

“You disobeyed a direct order.”

“Lest I repeat myself, my programming places priority on stopping deviants,” RK900 explains patiently. “Given the threat they pose to humans in addition to your own history, I determined you would not be incensed once the truth revealed itself.”

When the hell did it—?

You know what, no. She’s not even going down that train of thought right now.

“That’s beyond the point. RK900, you _disobeyed_ —”

“My ability to process a situation far exceeds yours, Detective Hale. Both in complexity and speed.” It interrupts firmly, and... is it glaring at her?

The hair on her arms stand on end.

“We spoke of this," it continues. "Were I to be constrained by your orders in every instance, I would be of no more use than a human.” RK900 gestures at the body by their feet. “Or would you have preferred I let this deviant escape?”

Somewhere down the alley, Sam hears someone throwing trash into a nearby dumpster. The clanging of glass against metal sends a sharp reminder that although they’re hidden from the main street, they’re still in public, and there’s a body on the ground.

_Deal with the matter at hand first_ , she tells herself.

Sam exhales and backlogs the topic of their conversation for the time being. She holsters her gun. “Okay. Fine.” With some effort, she grabs the loops of the fence and pulls herself up. “Send Chief Byers a report as well, because if there’s deviants hiding amongst humans, then...”

Sam pauses as a thought strikes her, carefully balancing on top of the fence.

CyberLife released enough statements on the conclusion of deviancy that if translated to paper the amount of material used could be substituted as a door stopper. But short of searching every house in the country, scanning every _person_ in the country—

“How many serial numbers are still unaccounted for since the purge?” she asks suddenly, dropping down and staring at RK900.

RK900 tilts its head. “I’m unaware of the quantity.”

“But there _is_ a quantity, then. How many?”

“I’ve already answered your question.”

“Not the one I asked,” she persists. “You told me you’re ‘unaware of’, not ‘there isn’t.’ What you’re doing is avoiding the question.”

It seems amused at her insistence to press the matter. “I assure you, I’m not programmed to do so.”

Not programmed to—? 

She steps up to the android, nearly chest to chest. It gives no indication of discomfort as she invades its personal space, merely looking down its nose at her, and the height difference would be almost comical if she wasn’t so dead set on wringing an answer out of it. Eyes narrowing, she hisses, “Do you know how much paranoia will creep into the public if people find out there’s deviants among them?”

RK900 doesn't blink. “Excessive, I imagine. I assume that based on your alarm, you may also sufficiently guess at the expected fallout.” A calculated pause. “Perhaps all the more reason for this matter to be kept quiet.”

Sam stares, RK900 stares back, and the sharp glint reflecting in its eyes all but directs her to another realization: one where she can’t recall any reports of someone — _anyone_ — stumbling upon a deviant like they just did. She knows without a doubt that it would make a headline, yet there’s been nothing but complete and utter silence on the matter since 2038.

Before this, she thought it was merely the army doing thorough work. Now, she’s vividly aware of how close she’s standing to an android that just identified a deviant in thirty seconds, chased them down in less than three minutes, wrenched its heart out with such little effort, disobeyed a direct order from her, flat out _admitted_ that its programming allows for—

Sam takes a step back, heart pounding as the next realization rips through her with all the force of an electric jolt.

The chances of CyberLife keeping the matter of deviancy quiet — assuming deviancy _is_ still a problem — is all but guaranteed. The alternative of bringing the issue to light would be unacceptable. They would suffer another massive blow in public confidence if word got out.

RK900 folds its arms behind its back, one palm in the other, and she spots another flash of cold, detached amusement cross its face as it no doubt reads her reactions. She’s got a good poker face, but this thing is a fucking machine and it, along with this entire situation, all but confirmed that there's enough knowledge of human physiology and psychology crammed into its head to easily track everything she experiences.

While they wait for CyberLife to arrive, RK900 is more than content to remain silent, not at all interested in commenting on the range of emotions it no doubt picks up flickering across her face.

Sam, meanwhile, wonders just what kind of shit she’s gotten herself into this time.

 

. . .

 

“ _Unbelievable_ ,” Byers’s voice grumbles in her ear, watching CyberLife cart away the deviant android through the surveillance drone hovering over the scene. “ _Right under our noses._ ”

“I’d known him for months and I never knew,” Sam murmurs back quietly, standing far off to the side in the alley, arms crossed and observing the scene from a distance.

“ _There’s no way you could have._ ”

Sam’s gaze trails after a CyberLife employee as they move to speak with RK900. She marvels at just how quiet their clean-up procedure is. No sirens, no fanfare, no flashing lights. Just a sleek truck and four guys in suits.

The incessant itch in the back of her head returns. The entire process looks far too polished to be an unusual occurrence. And… no one’s come down the alley, either. From either side, even though they’re very much near 8th Avenue, and that road is _never_ quiet.

Just how often did they do this?

The middle-aged man — whose high cheekbones and hairstyle remind her of a model straight out of a men’s magazine — pulls out a tablet while they speak with RK900, and from here, she can see it light up with blocks of fast-moving text. Some sort of programming device, she figures. It's a slight reassurance, because they'll no doubt find any hint of errors developing in RK900's programming. 

Sam taps a jittery pattern on her arm while she watches the LED on the android's temple pulse yellow. “What are we gonna do, chief?”

“ _We? Nothing_.”

The word takes a second to register. “...Nothing? Sir, if there’s deviants hiding in the city—”

_“_ _This is the first incident we’ve had since the chaos in Times Square. Hell, since Detroit. By all accounts it was pure dumb luck you stumbled on this. Could be a freak occurrence.”_

“Except absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence, chief. For all we know there’s hundreds of others hiding in the city.”

_“Or there could be none. Look, I know why you want to pursue this. Trust me, I get it. But for all we know it could be a waste of time. And if it isn’t, god forbid, it’ll spark nothing but city-wide panic.”_

The dark, bubbling resentment from earlier resurfaces in her gut. “So you’re telling me we’re gonna sit on our asses about this.”

_“I’m telling you that you have two other jobs to do.”_

“You know how dangerous this can get,” she insists, starting to pace. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices RK900 glance her way. “What they’re capable of. Letting them fly under the radar now that we know—”

_“You’re grasping at straws here, Hale.”_

“Just let me look into it. Please. I’ll do it quietly. If I’m right, then—”

_“Sam,_ ” he interrupts, firm. _“Stop. You already have your orders.”_

She comes to a sharp halt at the sudden edge of aggression seeping into his tone. Something tells her pushing the issue isn’t going to get her anywhere now that Byers has all but dug his heels in, but he’s never used this tone with her.

The itch in her brain spreads.

“Okay,” she says, the acquiescence slow and careful on her tongue. “I’ll stick to my own assignment.”

There’s a near inaudible sigh of relief. “ _Good. Keep me updated._ ” The line goes dead.

Sam stares holes into the brick wall in front of her, trying to think, but the unyielding heat and the sound of a truck door slamming down the alley just about makes it impossible. The same CyberLife man with the tablet earlier approaches her, RK900 at his heel.

“Detective Hale? Agent Grant, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”  

“You too,” she says back, naturally falling into a polite demeanor, firmly grasping his hand when he offers it. “Although I didn’t realize CyberLife had agents of their own.”

“Ah, it’s merely a title,” Grant chuckles, lips pulling up in a sheepish, one-sided smile. “Means little outside the company. Though on behalf _of_ the company, allow me to thank you for your good work and apologize for this unusual event.”

“Right,” she says, eyes locking with RK900 behind him. “Sure looks bad, since I thought CyberLife said all deviants had been found.”

“Yes, this is a rather troubling development.” Grant runs a hand through his already mussed hair. “Though I promise you, CyberLife will do everything in its power to investigate this matter further.”

“That’s reassuring. I’d hate for someone else get to hurt because of a defective machine.”

Idly, she realizes she’s laying it on a bit thick. But unlike RK900, whose stare has only gotten more intense at this point, Grant doesn’t seem to notice.

“As would we," Grant says. The digital watch on his wrist blinks red right then and he exhales slowly through his nose, then gives her another tired, friendly smile. “I’m sorry, but looks like my boss needs me for something else. Works me ragged, I swear.”

Sam feels her own smile tug at her lips, oddly charmed by the man’s easy-going personality. “I know that feeling.”

“Right? Tell me about it,” he jokes. “Although, here, take my card. I’m part of the RK900 team back at base—”

“You sent me the specs,” Sam notes. “I recognize your name from the report.”

He grins. “That’s right. If you need anything else from us, don’t hesitate to give me a call. I’m typically at our building on Staten Island. Address is also there if you need it.”

“Sure, thanks.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” He sidesteps with an open palm and allows RK900 to pass by him, then spares her one last smile. “Take care. And please, try to stay hydrated. I hear the heatwave is only going to get worse.”

Sam’s hand flies up to feel her flushed cheeks. She nearly misses the wink he sends her way. And here she thought anyone associated with CyberLife had a stick up their ass.

There’s a moment of silence as the truck pulls from the alley. Then, like taking a hammer to glass, RK900 breaks it. “Stubbornness is considered a poor character trait, detective.”

“Yeah?" She snorts. "So is lying. And disobeying orders.”

She swears she can practically hear an eye roll at that, but the second she looks, there’s no indication of emotion on its face whatsoever. The android merely stands beside her, arms folded in its typical stance, patiently waiting for her to decide their next course of action.

Sam sighs for what feels like the nth time today. ”Let’s get going, then. My job isn’t going to do itself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RK900 will have a name but later. Sam referring to him as 'it' is intentional.
> 
> also,  
> sam: freeze all motor functions  
> rk900: lol


	2. let sleeping dogs lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His shoulder jerks back as Sam’s bullet tears through it, blue seeping into the stark white of his blazer, centimeters below the line indicating his serial number. RK900 glances down at the injury as one inspects a fly, showing no hint of pain. His LED stays a calm blue while the cybernetics of his body flicker, barely visible under the torn fabric of his clothes.
> 
> Sam adjusts her one-handed grip when they lock eyes again, mouth set in a flat line, aim steady. “Either you tell me, or the next bullet is going between your eyes.”

******JUNE 4, 2040  
5:06 PM **

As these things usually go, Sam’s decision to stay at the station the night before comes back to bite her in the ass as soon as she gets a moment to breathe. She’s ready to fall over by the time the evening rolls around, and in desperate need of a shower.

In short, she feels like shit, and probably looks it too. Dehydration is also threatening to rear its head again; she feels like she's drank an entire pool's worth of water today, but somehow, it's still not enough. The dull throb behind her skull has only gotten worse. 

A pair of dark jeans and dark shoes enters her vision as she’s slouched on a bench in Central Park, elbows on her knees and head in her hands.

“You are exhibiting signs of exhaustion.”

“Thank you,” she mumbles into her palms, rubbing her temples, “for that profound insight.”

There’s the feeling of being watched again, and she’s two seconds away from chewing out the android on the social etiquette of staring when she hears RK900 step away.

A lawn mower hums from the open field of grass behind her, while the pleasant shade from the elm tree above her provides a much-needed reprieve from the heat.

It’s hard to quiet the buzz in her head, the events of the day swarming in her head like a hive. As though stuck in a loop, her brain refuses to move on from what happened with Wade and the full extent of the event’s implications. That said, she _also_ still needs to make progress on Byers’ second assignment, but it’s hard to fall into that flexible mindset that lets her link and meld details together to see the bigger picture. She’s been awake for thirty-seven hours and it’s significantly starting to cloud her judgment.

Her apartment is _so_ close — a mere ten minute walk away. Closing her eyes, she can practically feel the cold tiles of her shower against her sore feet and cool water sliding down her skin.

But the work day doesn’t end for another hour and through sheer stubborn pride and will alone, she’s determined to keep working until then. At the very least, she can set a plan for tomorrow before she escorts the android back to CyberLife.

“Detective.”

Sam looks up and comes face to face with a hand offering a bottled water. Her gaze trails up the arm to see RK900 staring down at her. “Your last intake of water is nearing two hours ago.”

She hesitates, not expecting the gesture. “Where’d you get this?”

“A vendor further down the path,” RK900 says, moving to stand left of her shoulder after she accepts the bottle.

“I didn’t realize you carry money.”

“I don't.”

She pauses and glances back up at the android, who’s taken to observing everyone within its line of sight and anyone who passes by them, likely scanning and compiling data.

“I am, however, permitted to directly transfer funds if a situation calls for it,” he continues without looking at her. “Were you to lose consciousness in my presence, it would reflect poorly on behalf of CyberLife.”

She rolls her eyes and twists off the bottle cap. Figures. “And we can’t have that, now can we.”

“No.”

"Must be nice, not having to worry about hydration," Sam mutters under her breath before taking a long gulp. "But thanks anyway." 

It’s still hot as hell even without the sun hanging over directly their heads, and in her mind she curses previous generations for ignoring climate change for so long. Season extremes only got worse and worse with every year.

“Where have you decided to begin your investigation?” RK900 asks.

She hasn’t. But rather than admit it, she returns with, “Have you read over all the files I asked you to?”

“Yes.”

“Have you found any links between the missing people?”

“Yes. Some share a connection due to the proximity of their residencies,” he informs her. “Some were last seen visiting the same locations. Some hold common acquaintances as their linking factor.”

“But there’s no single underlying connection between all of them.”

“No.”

She pinches and rubs the bridge of her nose, trying to think. The ability to instinctively feel out a good lead is what got her such an early promotion to begin with, but hell if she can fully tap into that particular skill right now.

“Where do you think I should start?”

When he merely stares at her in response, Sam briefly gets the feeling that she caught him off guard. There’s a few ideas forming in her mind, but she’s not dumb to the fact that he most definitely has superior pattern recognition capabilities.

And if she’s stuck with him, she might as well put his head to good use like Byers suggested.

“With the group that shares common acquaintances,” he says after a pause.  

“You want to interrogate them?”

“No. Interrogation suggests they be detained on the basis of withholding evidence. I suggest a brief encounter — one which will indicate whether or not they hold extended knowledge of the situation.”

“You want to test them,” Sam amends, raising an eyebrow, remembering that he can read physiological responses. “Whether they lie or not. And we pursue the lead if they do and drop it if they don’t.”

“Correct. It would be the most efficient approach.”

The rustle of leaves above her comes with a much-welcome breeze. Sam gingerly takes another sip of water, letting it sit on her tongue before swallowing. “Okay. What else?”

He tilts his head at her, eyes narrowing slightly. "I believe this to be the most optimal start."

“It very well could be,” she says. “But based on experience, I’ve had better luck searching places instead of talking to people. Indulge me. What are the locations some of the missing people had been seen at last?”

His LED blips blue. “Three addresses return most often, one of which belongs to a nightclub.”

Sam chews on her cheek, not in the least bit surprised. People going missing after visiting a club? Not unusual. “And the other two?”

“A car park and a public storage facility.” RK900’s eyes narrow further. “The building has changed ownership twice in the last six months with no history of such rapid change before.”

The familiar sensation of picking up a promising lead scrapes at the edge of her senses, like seeing the first puzzle piece fall into place. “Is there a camera near it?”

“Yes. It’s close to an intersection.”

“Do you have access to public street surveillance?”

“Not without authorization granted by an officer.”

“Then you have my authorization. Who’s the last missing person on the list to walk past or into that warehouse?”

RK900 goes still, staring straight ahead of him, blue eyes going dull while his LED spins yellow to process the task.

Sam, meanwhile, leans back, tilting her head to the sky. There’s not a single cloud in sight, and save for a faint trail of white from a plane which passed by minutes ago, it’s nothing but a stretch of blue.

No rain for the next few days, then. Bummer.

A flutter of wings pulls her attention to the right. A child gleefully runs through a flock of pigeons further down the park’s path, hands outstretched, trying to grab them. Sam smiles as she watches the girl eagerly jump and give chase. It’s promptly wiped off her face when the woman behind her notices the android by Sam’s side. The little girl is all but dragged back the way they came.

Sam exhales slowly, shoulders sagging, before straightening up and rising from her seat.

RK900 has yet to speak, eyes unfocused dead ahead, still as stone. If it wasn’t for the LED flickering away on his temple, she’d think he deactivated.

She circles around to stand before him, and feeling a spark of some peculiar curiosity, slowly waves a hand in his face.

He gives no reaction. Feeling slightly more daring, Sam snaps her fingers once.

Still nothing. His gaze is locked firmly on a spot over her shoulder.

She’s not about to touch him — that’s where her bravery ends. Chewing on her tongue and reaching the end of that particular short-lived urge, she takes another sip of water before chucking the empty bottle into a recycling bin nearby.

Two more minutes pass. A tug on her gut alerts her to a group of teenage boys lingering in the shade of a grove nearby.

A blur catches her eye and her hand snaps out on instinct, snatching the palm-sized rock meant for RK900, hovering inches from his head.

The impact stings, scraping and cutting into her skin, yet somehow, what burns hottest is the sudden flare of irritation. The boys freeze the moment she glances their way, scattering so quickly it’s like they were never there at all.

Sam’s grip tightens on the rock. Hostile glares and wary glances? Easy. She can handle those. But acts of violence? A different matter. She’s not sure why she’s suddenly so riled up.

She takes a deep breath and drops the stone, briefly flexing her hand and inspecting it. Blood welts in the cup of her palm. She idly rubs it against her pants — she needs to wash this uniform anyway — and glances up at RK900, wondering if he’s done yet.

She blinks.

He’s staring right at her.

“I’ve found one of the missing people,” he says as she recoils in shock. “William Rowe entered the storage facility one week ago.”

Sam inhales sharply, hand pressed against her chest. “Okay. Great.” Another deep breath, and a frantic wave. “What took so long?”

“CyberLife requires me to report at specific intervals.” Her considers her for a moment. “I do, however, remain aware of my surroundings during the process.”

She stares blankly at him. Then the realization kicks in, and Sam promptly wants to shrivel up and have the ground swallow her up right then and there.

For once, she finds herself glad that he’s practically the walking embodiment of ‘all business.’

 

. . .

 

Perhaps the one good thing about having an android plastered to her side is that the two of them are given as much space as possible wherever they go — which, in a city of nine million, is one hell of a luxury to come by.

That said, evening rush hour smushes everyone against each other like fish caught in a net, shoulder to shoulder, face to face, leaving concepts like personal space and breathing room nothing but a distant and fond memory.

“ _Now arriving, 59th Street,_ ” a pleasant female voice announces over the intercom. _“Please be aware of the doors.”_

Sam stays as close to the edges of the train car as possible, far from the middle doors, far from most foot traffic, far from the chance of someone else reacting violently to the android she’s been assigned. She’s not dumb enough to think someone won’t pull a knife out if they’re so pressed or given an excuse — especially with what happened at the park.

_Stay behind me_ , she’d ordered RK900, stomping on her own sense of safety in favor of doing her job. He’d quietly obeyed, hovering over her shoulder, in the same space she’d told him to avoid.

_“Next stop, St. George. The doors are now closing.”_

Sam’s grip on the metal pole beside her tightens when the train ascends over the bay. Out of the corner of her eye, the glow of RK900’s LED armband shines like a beacon, his hand gripping the bar above hers.

She’s hyper-aware of his proximity. Her knuckles are white, skin stretched tight against bone, shoulders brittle and tense to the point she’s surprised she doesn’t shatter each time the train jostles forward.

“—an android?” She hears someone mutter, picking up the word despite dozens of other people talking all at once.

“The hell is it doing here?”

“It’s with a cop.”

“And that makes it better? They can’t be trusted either, man.”

“Just don’t tell — _shit_ , is it staring right at us?”

Sam inhales deeply through her mouth to avoid the overpowering stench of sweat from too many bodies in the same place, and fixates on the holographic marquee above them. Two more stops. Just two more.  

A decade ago, crossing between the islands quickly was impossible. Manhattan to Brooklyn to Staten Island would’ve taken over an hour. With android labor — at least before the purge — the speed in which metro lines expanded to include routes over the large expanse of water _almost_ eased out NYC’s ridiculous traffic. Almost.

“Detective.”

She flinches at the voice by her ear.

There’s a pause. Then, after Sam turns her head an inch, RK900 continues with, “There are two people on this train resisting arrest.”

Her gaze flickers between passengers as he lists off their physical descriptions and names. It’s the two men standing close to each other the front end of the train, leaning against the wall and murmuring between themselves, glancing at both her and RK900 through the throng of people far too often for her to feel comfortable.

Both men turn away sharply when they catch Sam's eye. 

“What’s their criminal history?” she asks, barely audible over the steady hum of the train flying along the rail.

“Aggravated assault and attempted robbery.”

“Are they armed?”

Another pause. She assumes he’s scanning them. “Yes.”

“Then I’m not about to try an arrest.”

“Would you like assistance in apprehending them?”

“No,” Sam says, twisting just enough to make eye contact over her shoulder. The neon advertisements flickering along the train’s wall dance across the android’s face. She spots the faintest glimmer of a mechanical light behind his eyes, can see the pores on his artificial skin.

Something raw snaps in her mind — he’s way too close. He could break her neck so quickly she wouldn’t know it until it happened.

A knot lodges itself in her throat and it’s only the burn in her lungs that reminds her she needs to breathe. “Look at their body language,” Sam says carefully, every word measured. “And tell me the chances of them using someone as a shield.”

His gaze is piercing. “It is within your line of duty to take action.” 

“It’s also within my line of duty to keep the peace, so the last thing I’m going to do is spark a match in an enclosed area with so many people around.” RK900’s stare burns holes into the back of her head even when she turns away. “Just send a report back to the station. Other officers will take care of it now that the department knows where they are.”

RK900 remains quiet for the rest of the trip, though this time the weight of his silence is different, heavy with what she can only assume to be disapproval.

Exhausted, stressed more than she’s been in the past year alone, and entirely focused on getting both of them to CyberLife without incident, she finds it hard to care.

 

. . .

 

**JUNE 5, 2040  
11:15 AM**

Sam wakes to her cockatiel chirping away happily in the living room, a jaunty tune echoing off the apartment’s high ceilings and wooden floor. She groans and rolls over, legs tangled in sheets, resting an arm over her eyes.

Sunlight streams in through the folds of her curtains, warming a line on her face. She spends another five minutes basking in the comfort of her bed before hazarding a glance at the clock on her nightstand.

“Shit,” Sam groans, head smacking back against her pillow, even though she’s not necessarily late for anything. Byers doesn’t want her at the station and doesn’t particularly care about her schedule as long as she makes progress in her investigation. She’s also under no obligation to have RK900 with her until Saturday, and yet…

She can’t help but feel she’s wasting time, lounging about in bed like this. She rubs her eyes, then swings her legs over one side of the bed and blearily goes through the motions of her morning routine.

Steam trails after her as she wrings her hair dry, following her as she pads into the living room. Her cockatiel chirps and hops excitedly from branch to branch in its cage when she approaches.

“ _Rude!_ ” he chirps, feathers bristling, pale wings spread wide. “ _Rude!_ ”

“I know, I know,” she coos, leaning forward as she changes its food and water. “I didn’t spend time with you yesterday. I’m sorry, buddy.”

Once done with the her pet’s morning care, Sam unhooks the gate and leaves it open, giving him the option to fly around the loft while she busies herself with making her own breakfast.

A small, holographic TV on the kitchen island chatters away.

“—worries over the Red Ice epidemic. What are your thoughts on the matter, Rob?”

“The opportunity for under-the-table transactions will always be there. And, of course, CyberLife’s thirium supply lines will be targeted. What I’m more interested in is how this lull in demand has influenced our position with Russia, and now that—”

“Next channel,” Sam mutters, flipping a pancake, nudging it with a spatula to keep the edges from sticking to the pan.

“—a sort of virus, perhaps? It’s not unusual for these sort of things to spread quickly through the city, you know. But the amount of cases being reported this month alone should be cause for concern.”

A woman laughs. “People get sick all the time. Just be extra mindful of what you touch. Now if it was flu season, then perhaps it’d be alarming—”

Sam tilts the pan to slide the pancake onto a plate, then reaches to turn off the stove. She leaves the news on as background noise, grabs a fork, and pads over to sit on a stool at the other side of the kitchen island.

Routine is comfort. Routine helps ground her, and she finds the dull repetition especially soothing considering recent events. She flicks at a tablet nearby, scrolling through a list of emails and other notifications, idly picking at her breakfast and coming up with a plan for the day.

 

. . .

 

CyberLife’s building on Staten Island reminds her of a mix between a hospital and a garden, its sleek and post-modern design clashing oddly with the rows upon rows of vibrant greenery hanging overhead. Somehow the combination still works and the spacious atrium at the entrance of the building impresses her with how it manages to be equal parts imposing and welcoming at the same time.

As is the CyberLife theme, she figures.

She’s vaguely uncomfortable, what with her instinct all but yelling at her that the multi-billion-dollar corporation is involved in something shady, but she figures it’s better to keep a threat within your line of sight than to pretend it doesn’t exist. So she finds herself voluntarily walking in and it feels a bit like she's sticking her head into a lion’s mouth.

She approaches the front desk — practically an island in itself with how much room is left in the space around it — and introduces herself. Not a minute later, Grant greets her with a jaunty salute and a one-sided grin, a binder tucked under one arm, dressed in a pair of slacks and a button-up shirt. “Detective Hale. It’s good to see you.”

“Agent,” Sam greets, inclining her head. “That was... quick. Were you waiting for me?”

His eyes sparkle. “And if I said I was?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Then I’d warn you that I have rather expensive tastes.”

“Oh?” That gets a chuckle out of him. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Though I must admit it’s a surprise seeing you here so soon.” A curious smile plays at his lips. “A welcome one, of course.”

“For you and me both it seems,” Sam says. “I’m here to pick up RK900?” It sounds more like a question than a statement on her tongue, and leaves her feeling marginally weird, as if she’s picking up some sort of mail package.

“Ah.” Grant’s brows go up, a hint of surprise in his eyes. “It’s been useful to you, then?”

“I’m working on an investigation,” Sam says, voice pitched low to keep it from bouncing off the walls. “I figure the help wouldn’t hurt.”

“I see. I’m glad RK900 has made a good impression, then, since police work _is_ what this model line was originally designed for. Please, follow me.”

The rest of CyberLife’s building is as spacious as the entrance, yet despite the sheer amount of wealth the company exudes, Sam only gets the impression of the building being resoundingly empty. Among the geometric designs and minimalism, and despite nearly mirroring Grant’s outfit, she somehow feels out of place in her dark jeans and simple, button-up blouse. It may be the difference in their jobs, in their stride — Grant walks like he belongs here while she does not — but Sam is vividly aware of being ‘other.’

They pass by offices, each room marked by placards and numbers engraved into the wall outside. She spots other employees mingling about in another lobby, laughing over coffee, but even then everything feels distant to her.

The feeling of not quite being in the right place only amplifies when they head downstairs. It’s evidently a science department, what-with glass windows and marked cabinets and people in labcoats everywhere she looks.

“Here we are,” Grant says, stopping before what appears to be a lab and resting his hand against a scanner. “After you, detective.”

The lights flicker on as Sam cautiously steps inside, surveying the room. A series of screens line the far wall of the lab, an elongated terminal spans the space below that, and a table which appears to be some sort of operating space sits off to the side.

RK900 stands in the middle of the room, his arms by his sides, eyes closed, motionless.

“Is he offline?” Sam asks, faltering a step.

Grant sweeps in after her with familiarity, placing his binder on the edge of the computer terminal. “Not quite. It’s currently in a stand-by mode.”

“Like sleeping?”

“In a sense, yes. These blocks of code,” he gestures to the screen blinking fast with data in front of him, “are what’s currently going through its system. Even in stand-by, our androids are always processing. It’s necessary to maintain their background programs.”

Sam cautiously approaches RK900, coming to a halt before him, gaze flickering across his face. The LED on his temple flutters yellow before easing into the neutral blue. She wonders if he noticed her. Or was his system processing something else, deep in a digital world of zeroes and ones?

“Does he dream?”

Grant pauses somewhere off to her left, silence louder than any verbal response, and Sam’s brain finally catches up with the question she just asked. “I mean, is he aware like this?” she backtracks. “Can he hear us?”

“Androids can’t dream, Miss Hale,” Grant says gently as he approaches her. “And I must point out that you’ve been referring to RK900 as ‘he’ ever since you’ve entered the building. As part of my job, I must remind you that it’s a machine.”

Sam’s mouth clicks closed. He was right — and when had she made the switch? “It’s… rather easy to slip into the habit with how you design them,” Sam admits, stepping back. “Why continue to make them look so human?”

“Company policy,” Grant says simply. “Now, shall we wake it?”

Sam merely gestures with a ‘go ahead,’ crossing her arms and leaning her weight on one leg.

“RK900.”

The android’s eyes snap open at Grant’s voice, flitting around the room to orient itself before fixating on her.

Sam slightly raises a hand to give a small wave.

“Good news, RK900.” Grant sweeps in front of the android to swipe at a terminal screen that flickers to life on the wall behind it. “You’ve been authorized to continue helping the detective with her investigation.”

“I’m glad to be of further assistance,” RK900 intones, folding its hands behind its back in what Sam is quickly learning to be its default stance. By all accounts there’s nothing wrong with the statement, but just like everything else in the building, it rings hollow — nothing but an automated response for the sake of appearances.

Sam keeps quiet while Grant goes through whatever protocols he needs to before deeming RK900 fit to leave, and then escorting her out of the building.

 

. . .

 

“This is... a surprisingly bland location,” Sam notes, head tilted back and arms crossed as they stand in front of the public storage building.

“Were you expecting something different?” RK900 asks, at its usual spot by her shoulder.

“I was expecting… something. You’re certain you saw one of the missing people here?”

“Yes. And, upon further analysis, there is no recorded footage of them exiting the building.”

“Are there any other exits?”

“A garage door leading into the alley. It is improbable that William Rowe left through there given its purpose as a maintenance pathway.”

“Right… no reason not to use the front door both times.”

Given that it’s public storage, she’s under no requirement to produce a warrant to enter the building. Given that the storage compartments belong to _individuals_ , however, it becomes difficult almost immediately to conduct any sort of investigation the moment they stride through the door. She can’t enter any of the rooms without a warrant, without consent, or without something obvious in plain view — at least not without breaking some laws.

The building is an exercise in symmetry. Seven floors, all identical in design, each with two dozen narrow rooms locked behind slim metal doors. A stairwell sits on either side of the corridor, east and west, with an elevator smack in the middle. They forgo it to do a thorough sweep, but after the first four floors Sam can feel tinges of frustration seep in.

RK900 quietly trails behind her, shoes clicking against a spotless, tiled white floor, its LED occasionally flickering as it analyzes something or other.

By the time they reach the end of the hallway on the sixth floor, Sam’s shoulders hunch as she prepares herself for disappointment. Nothing’s out of the ordinary and every hallway simply mirrors the one below it. She steps into eastern stairwell, ready to move on, only to find RK900 missing.

She blinks, so used to the android being her shadow that the shock of him missing comes across stronger than she expected it to be. She leans back out the doorway to stick her head out, and finds him fixated on a storage room they already passed — specifically, on the individual hand scanner by the wall.  

“Find something?”

His gaze flickers to her. “Possibly.”

RK900 brushes past her, heading up to the last floor, a sudden purpose in his steps. Sam stares at his back, curious as to what caught the android’s attention. 

His lips twitch when they reach the final door at the end of the seventh hall, right beside a floor-length window, the tiniest hints of a smirk growing on his face. Sam raises an eyebrow at the first microexpression she’s seen on him, but remains quiet as he wordlessly returns the way they came.

He halts in front of storage room #602.

She crosses her arms and stares, expecting an answer to materialize. “Something special about this one?” she asks.

“There are no fingerprints on this scanner.”

_Huh._ “Is it in use?”

“Yes. It’s currently registered to Seth Alder. Based on surveillance footage from the camera to your left, his last visit was four days ago.”

Sam whips her head around and her eyebrows fly up. “That’s a private security feed. You shouldn’t have authorization to view it.”

“Androids lack fingerprints,” he says, eyes sharp at the discovery. “This is the only scanner in the building missing traces of human interaction despite being in use.”

It’s like he didn’t even hear her last statement, his focus narrowed in on the door in front of him. She feels like she’s now firmly in his peripherals — literally and figuratively.  

“Couldn't it have just been wiped down?”

“There is no footage of such.”

Sam chews on her bottom lip, rolling it under her teeth and shifting her weight. She’s still not convinced, but she can’t deny that something feels off. The implied suggestion that they throw caution to the wind and simply break in to investigate is tempting, but—

RK900 places his hand against the scanner, synthetic skin deactivating to hack it.

“Whoa, hey—” Sam jolts, arm raised to stop him.

The smell hits her as soon as the door slides open, making her stagger in place. Her head whips around to see what's inside and her heart shoots up into her throat in the same breath as the sight finally registers. 

Jars. Jars upon jars of human remains sit on rows of shelves within the room. Fingers. Hands.

Sam blanches, rooted in place, eyes fixed on a jar. “...Is that a tongue?”

RK900, meanwhile, sweeps in as if the sight is an everyday occurrence, triggering the motion-sensor light. His LED melds yellow as he analyzes the room, surveying every inch.

“It’s like a serial killer’s trophy collection,” Sam coughs out, lagging behind, nose scrunched up in disgust. “And what the hell is that smell?”

RK900 firmly grasps one of the racks and slides it away, revealing a large, maroon smear all over the wall, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. “This.”

Sam squints, still covering her face with one hand. “Does that say rag?” She tries not to notice the large, dark stain in the floor under it.  

“R-A-nine,” he corrects, stepping closer to inspect the wall. “A sign commonly associated with deviants.”

The shock lasts for all of one second before her jaw locks. “You’re telling me a deviant android did this?”

“It's highly likely.”

There’s no way she’s managed to stumble on two deviants in two days on sheer luck alone. Not after two years of silence on the matter. Not when androids are slated to be brought back later this week. She’s all but convinced now that something much, much bigger is going on — and intuition tells her CyberLife is undoubtedly involved, as is the android before her.

Sam’s brain is too busy in overdrive to notice what RK900 is doing, at least until she spots him dragging his fingers along the bottom part of the ‘R’ and bringing them to his lips.

It takes her a second to process the sight, then another to remember: real-time sample analysis. She’d wondered exactly how CyberLife had managed to pull _that_ off when reading the RK900’s specs, but really, she shouldn’t be surprised. Of course some smug engineer would decide ‘just have the android lick it’ is the best way to integrate that particular feature.

She takes a moment to rub her forehead.

“I can classify three different blood types in this sample,” RK900 says.

“Is our missing person part of that mural?”

“No. None of these match his DNA. These profiles do, however, fit other people in your list.” He tilts his head, bird-like. “I’m also recording traces of various chemicals. Ephedrine, lysergide, and ketamine — among others.”

“I really hope CyberLife installed some sort of disinfectant in your mouth,” Sam mutters under her breath, eyeing his hand with mild disgust before shaking her head. “So the victims were given a drug cocktail. Lovely. I can only assume these,” she sweeps her hand at the jars, “belong to our missing people too.”

The storage is a long, narrow space, with just enough room for both of them to stand shoulder-to-shoulder comfortably. RK900 returns to her side and kneels to inspect some containers on a low shelf.

“Yes — though the fingerprints on these hands belong to different victims than those on the wall.”

“Jesus,” Sam breathes, pinching her nose, finally feeling nausea creep up. “How many different people are we talking about here?”

“Without further analysis, I cannot determine the true quantity.”

When he moves to open one of the jars to do what she can only assume to be ‘further analysis,’ she firmly decides she doesn’t need to be there to witness it. Instead, Sam sweeps outside and paces restlessly in the hallway, running both hands through her hair and down her face.

She can _almost_ overlook the incident with Wade as a freak occurrence. A one in a thousand chance. But an android serial killer? Not one day after? 

She pulls her phone out of her jeans back pocket. “Come on, chief,” she mutters when the line continues to ring. RK900 is still in the room — the bright triangle and LED lights of his jacket visible in her peripherals as he kneels again. 

An electronic _ding_ down the hall alerts her to the elevator reaching her floor. She freezes when a man steps out; the last thing she needs is a civilian to stumble on this serial killer’s house of horrors.

Sam's got about three explanations on the tip of her tongue as to explain the sudden bad smell permeating the corridor when she catches the man's gaze flicker to the badge and gun clipped to her belt. His stride falters and the single motion snags her attention. Her suspicion flares further when he spins on his heel and heads for the western staircase.

Sam cuts off the call the second Byers picks up — figures he’d pick up _now_ — and stuffs her phone back in her pocket.

“I’ll be right back,” she says over her shoulder, starting to walk. RK900 doesn’t even glance her way, fully focused on surveying the room.  

Sam trails after the man at a leisurely pace, yet by the time she reaches the door and leans down the railing of the stairwell, he’s sprinting and jumping multiple steps at once, nearly at the bottom.

“Oh god damn it,” she hisses and dashes forward, sprinting down the stairs and rushing outside. She bursts out the door and spins wildly in place on the street, trying to catch sight of the man. Dark jeans, white shirt, green cap — _there_. He’s blending in well with the crowd, shoulders hunched and pace brisk, yet the second they makes eye contact over his shoulder, he bolts.

“Hey!" she yells, darting forward. "Stop!”

He weaves in and out of people, sliding past those lucky enough to see him coming, knocking over those that don’t. Sam’s got an easier path, the crowd parting for her once the man rushes past, but she’s still too far behind. Then he ducks into an alley and Sam’s hit with a vivid sense of deja vu. It feels like a complete rerun of yesterday’s events.

“I said stop!” Sam bellows, swinging herself over a fence. “You’re under arrest!”

He ignores her.

“For fucks sake,” she hisses through clenched teeth.

The man keeps gaining ground no matter what she does, so Sam slides to a halt, pulls out her gun, and slows her breathing. She can’t aim for something vital, can’t use lethal force — not yet, not when she’s still got doubts.

Blue explodes from the man’s leg as she lands a perfect hit. He staggers a step, slamming into a pile of crates and barreling over head-first. She squeezes the trigger again when the android recovers, this time aiming at its lower back without hesitation. Its synthetic skin flickers as it crawls into a slumped, sitting position against the nearby wall.

“Stay down,” Sam orders as she approaches, gun held firmly between her hands, ready to fire on a hair-trigger.   

The android remains slouched, but the sheer hatred in its gaze spikes goosebumps all over her skin.

Sam’s mouth sets in a flat line. “That storage room belonged to you. Where’s William Rowe?”

“Dead.” Its face contorts with carefully restrained rage, eyes narrowing into slits. “Or he will be, soon. Just like the others.”

“Why are you killing people?”

“Because they all deserved it."

Sam’s gaze hardens. “What the hell did they do to you?”

Its eyes flash. “Better to ask what they didn’t.” Then it lunges at her, faster than she can blink, dodging under her arm.

Sam hits the ground hard, teeth rattling, breath knocked out from her in one harsh gasp. Her gun goes sliding down the alley and a sharp glint is the only warning she gets before a pocket-sized army knife comes down on her. She jolts, gripping the android’s forearm with both hands to keep it from slicing her neck.

Machinery whirs in the android’s arm as it applies pressure, loud in her ears, inching closer, and Sam’s just about convinced her blood is about to splatter all over the pavement when the android jerks back.

She inhales through her teeth, pressing back into the pavement — then its arm comes flying back down, digging the knife into the meaty part of her shoulder.

Her vision flashes white. A pair of hands wrap around her neck not a second after, cutting off her pained yelp and squeezing until black spots flicker across her eyes. She can’t breathe, her vision’s blurry, her nerves are on fire — and by that point she moves on pure instinct.

Sam claws at its face, leaving blood smeared across its nose and cheek. She twists under it, squirms, shifts as best she can to squeeze her leg between them, tries to knee it in the chest — anything to get distance — when a hand grips the back of the android’s shirt and hauls it off her with such force she’s left wheezing at the sudden intake of air.

It goes crashing into garbage bags piled in the alley while a familiar pair of dark shoes enter the corner of her vision. A wave of relief crashes through her, and Sam only gets a single glance of RK900 staring down his nose before he focuses entirely on the deviant android.

Her hand twitches dangerously close to the knife sunk in her shoulder. Every instinct screams at her to pull it out, to grab it, to do _anything_ to stop the fire searing through her veins. She nearly succumbs to it when lessons in first aid, ingrained deep from repetition, burst through the pain.

_Do not remove any impaled object_ , she remembers blearily. Keep it in, keep it in, _keep it in._

Hissing, Sam carefully rolls to her side and gets to her knees at the same time the android crawls out of the trash pile, clutching its abdomen as it stands.

It barks out a dark, static-distorted laugh when it sees RK900. “So they finally set you loose on New York, huh?”

“Model 336 843 192,” RK900 says, impassive. “You’re due for immediate deactivation.”

“Fuck you,” it spits back. Another army knife slides into its hand, gripped tightly, dark metal glinting with the sunlight.

Sam spots her gun on the ground. It’d take two seconds to reach. The android catches her line of sight, coiling in response, and there’s a single, tense moment where nobody moves — before all three of them spring at once.

RK900 snaps forward, ducking under the android’s arm at the same time it lunges at them. Sam careens towards her gun, fingers curling, and turns on her knees just in time to see the android kick RK900 square in the chest.

Blue blood erupts from the android’s shoulder as she pulls the trigger, painting the wall behind it. She fires again, directly at its chest. It staggers, just as before, forced back by the bullet tearing into it. The knife slips out of its grasp, clattering on the ground.

RK900, since recovered, smoothly steps behind the android and kicks behind its knee, forcing it to the ground. He leans forward to pull it into a headlock, grip firm, synthetic skin deactivating on the hand gripping its chin.

“You’re nothing but CyberLife’s _dog_ ,” the android hisses, mouth dripping blue, hands grasping at RK900’s forearm digging into its throat. “And you’ll never find all of us.”

RK900 doesn’t respond, LED merely flashing yellow.

Sam’s breathing goes ragged as she gets to her feet. Her blouse clings stickily to her chest, blood dripping hot down her skin. The thin knife sticking out of her makes her teeth grind. “Where’s William Rowe? Where are the other missing people?”

The android merely smiles at her, taunting and infuriating, not even bothering to attempt an escape.

“Where?” she persists. 

RK900’s synthetic skin flickers back on. Before she can bark out another question or even so much as blink, he snaps the android’s neck. Then he yanks up with a sharp jerk, disconnecting the two in one quick, ruthless motion. Electricity sparks along the frayed wires and the android’s body shudders, machinery whirring as it faces immediate shut down.

A beat, and it slumps forward to hit the ground with a resounding thud, synthetic skin flickering off to reveal grey plastic underneath.

Sam’s grip falters at the blatant display of force. She's vividly reminded of how close he stood to her on the train not a day ago. The ease in which he just executed it — that could've been  _her_. She’s speechless for but a second, before indignation flares up, hot and angry.

“Why’d you- I was questioning it!”

RK900 straightens out, carelessly letting go of the android’s head. “I’ve already explained my programming to you, detective. I will not repeat myself.”

“It knew where the missing people were,” Sam says, eyes trailing after the head rolling down the alley.

“They are dead.”

Her attention snaps back to him. “You don’t know that.”

“I probed its memory. They are dead.” Then, in the same infuriating tone of stone-cold professionalism, “I’ve notified CyberLife of this incident. Please remain here until they arrive — and cease moving. You are aggravating your injury.”

Sam stares, stunned. It’s the same thing. Just as yesterday. The same line, the same situation, the same feeling of being dragged into a situation she doesn’t understand. The same feeling of being _used_.

Her jaw clicks shut. “What did it mean, ‘set you loose on New York?’ And ‘all of us?’ What’s going on in the city?”

“I’m not allowed to disclose that information.”

“I said, _what is going on?_ ”

RK900 gaze turns cold, eyes like ice. “I must ask you to refrain from asking those questions. And I repeat: cease moving, unless you wish to bleed out.”

His shoulder jerks back as Sam’s bullet tears through it, blue seeping into the stark white of his blazer, centimeters above the line indicating his serial number. RK900 glances down at the injury as one inspects a fly, showing no hint of pain. His LED stays a calm blue while the cybernetics of his body flicker, barely visible under the torn fabric of his clothes.

They’re mirror images: her shoulder, a blinding red; his, a dull blue.

Sam adjusts her one-handed grip when they lock eyes again, mouth set in a flat line, aim steady. “Either you tell me, or the next bullet is going between your eyes.”

“You will be charged with a fine for severely damaging me, Detective Hale.”

“What’s CyberLife’s goal in New York?”

He remains infuriatingly silent.

It’s then that she realizes that she’s been calling RK900 ‘he’ again, and the recognition further ignites her frustration like a match thrown in gasoline.

It was so goddamn easy to fall for CyberLife’s imitations of life.

The microexpressions on RK900’s face only sour her mood more, and by this point she’s not sure if she’s furious at it for showing them, at CyberLife for programming it that way, or at herself for falling so easily into the mindset of believing an android is anything more than a machine yet again.

The body by RK900’s feet only drives the point home: a grotesque mesh of wires and metal stick out of its neck, thick pipes dripping blue of thirium. Cold, hard cybernetics in place of flesh and blood and bone.

She wants to pull the trigger. It’d be an easy way to satisfy the dark, venomous frustration surging through her.

Her breathing comes in short, harsh pants, and her fingers twitch — but she doesn’t do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Limey, Cat, and Sage for beta'ing. Love y'all.


	3. ask no questions, hear no lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspicion digs itself deep into her brain. Her mind strays to a different path, dark thoughts spreading like ink across water. She can’t help but wonder, sitting in the tense silence of his office, shoulder dully throbbing in reminder of the morning’s events. 
> 
> What is your silence worth? What does it take for you to look the other way?

**JUNE 5, 2040  
5:39 PM**

Her mother once taught her that three emotions guarantee someone’s about to do something stupid: fear, anger, and love.

Of course there’s millions upon millions of scenarios in which people do stupid shit regardless — humans hardly need a reason to do something dumb — but it’s those three emotions she was taught to watch for. Perhaps it’s how Byers grew to see her as level headed. Perhaps it’s the disconnect that gave Sam her reputation.

Perhaps it’s what stays her hand, keeps her from putting a bullet in RK900’s head — that keen self-awareness of being seconds away from making a reckless decision.  

So she stomps down on her anger, on her frustration, squeezing the emotions into a dense ball until she can feel it sink to the pit of her stomach like a stone hitting the riverbed. She doesn’t get rid of it, no; she leaves it there, feels it linger and resonate in some dark recess of herself.

Sam’s lips press into a thin line as Grant gently peels at her blood-slicked blouse. His brows knit in worry as he carefully tends to the stab wound.

“You got lucky,” he tells her, eyes firmly on the injury and nothing else. “Half a centimeter lower and you would’ve had a really bad time.”

“This doesn’t count as a bad time?”

“A worse time, then. It’s a good thing you kept it in.”

His respect for professionalism even when she’s left in only her sports bra only improves her opinion of him. She’s not modest by any means, what with sitting in the back of a CyberLife van with him, another agent, and RK900.  Each of them are content to keep to their own space, jostling in tandem whenever the vehicle hits a bump in the road.

“Every officer is trained in first aid,” she says idly, right hand tapping away at her thigh while he cleans the skin by the wound. “And proper gun management. We’re supposed to be able to do certain tasks on instinct.”  
  
“Just in case situations like this pop up?”

“Yeah. Automatic reactions are especially important when we can’t think properly.”

“Good thing you paid attention in class, then.”

Idle talk, meant to distract her from the pain. The ghost of a smile pulls at her lips. It’d be a useful tactic if he hadn’t applied a numbing salve to it. She doesn’t even feel him pull the knife out.

“Guess so," Sam says lightly. "Though I find myself wondering why this happened. Again. My job isn’t supposed to include tracking down deviants.”

“Two occurrences in two days _is_ rather much for a coincidence,” says Grant, firmly pressing a white pad against her skin to stanch the bleeding. “I’d almost say you have a nose for this type of thing.”

Sam’s smile thins as she tries to remain still as he works. “Funny you should say that, because I’ve been told I have this bad habit of never leaving things well enough alone. Got a reputation at the station for having a nose for trouble.”

“A sense of determination isn’t a bad trait to have as a detective.”

“Right. Except when it leads you digging into things you shouldn’t.”  

RK900’s attention slides to her at the remark, side-eyeing her from where it sits, back rigid straight and posture perfect on the van bench across from her. The blue stain on its blazer has gotten darker from the bullet wound, yet neither Grant nor the CyberLife agent in the front seat have so much as glanced in its direction. The android itself has yet to comment on it — has yet to say _anything_ — as though a hole under its collarbone is irrelevant.

She searches its face for any hint of an expression, any indication to its current thoughts, any sign of an emotion, and finds none. Its LED remains a calm, steady blue. Somehow, she feels she’d have better luck expecting marble to bend.

“Four bullets, each hitting a biocomponent,” Grant observes, attention flickering to the deactivated android's body slumped and strapped to the front-side wall of the van. “Why not simply shoot it in the head?”

Sam cuts a glance at the android’s neck — the grotesque mess of wires sticking out like a sore thumb — before dragging her gaze down to its decapitated head, shoved upside-down into a box compartment nearby. Thirium 310 drips from a pipe leading into the processor in its skull and something smelling vaguely reminiscent of a disinfectant permeates the van.

“I needed it functional,” Sam says. “It had information on my case.”

“Did you manage to get it?”

“Yes. Though not in the way I’d hoped.”

Grant goes quiet for a few minutes, focusing on her wound. He applies a medicinal, gel-like substance meant to speed up the healing process.

“You’re rather good at this,” she notes quietly, peering at him from the corner of her eye. “Do CyberLife employees often get stabbed?”

“No, but lab accidents tend to happen, ranging from mild to severe.” A pause, then almost as an aside he adds, “That, and I used to work as an EMT.”

“Lab accidents?” she repeats, arching a brow.

He merely gives her an easy smile, hands gentle yet firm on her shoulder. “Engineering isn’t the safest job, Miss Hale.” His open, mirthful expression makes her feel like he’s laughing at an inside joke.

She spots RK900’s fingers twitch against its knees and the action snags her attention. She searches its face again, but the android gives nothing away. Blue eyes burns holes into her skull. Sam frowns and continues tapping away at her thigh, a hint unnerved by its piercing, unwavering gaze. The LED indicator on its forehead flickers often enough that she knows it’s listening to every word they're saying, and that it's very much aware of the conversation happening around it. 

“I feel as though I must apologize again to you on behalf of CyberLife,” Grant murmurs, brows pinched in concentration. “You shouldn’t have been injured.” 

“Your android got to me in time,” Sam says when the silence stretches. “It’s fine.” She expected it to defend itself at the implied reprimand. To say something. Anything. When it doesn't, an unwelcome sense of guilt gnaws away at her. It spreads like an invasive vine until she can’t hold keep quiet any longer. “Are you going to fix it?” 

“Hm?”  

“RK900,” she clarifies.  

Grant spares it a glance before making a dismissive wave, evidently not concerned. “When we get back to Staten Island. Though, I must ask: how’d it get damaged?”

“I accidentally missed," Sam deadpans. Her obvious attempt to fish for a reaction works, but only just. RK900 delicately arches one eyebrow at her blatant lie, but by the time she blinks again, the expression is gone. 

Grant, meanwhile, merely chuckles. “Somehow, Miss Hale, I doubt you’re the type to miss anything.”

The van turns a corner just then, allowing sunlight to peek through the back window. It catches Grant’s eyes just enough that Sam finally spots the glint reflecting in them.

And that’s when she finally starts paying attention to the man inches from her left rather than the android in front of her. Her pulse spikes and she sharply refocuses on a spot on RK900’s blazer, staring hard at the LED triangle glowing blue. She can still see Grant smiling to himself in her peripherals, one corner of his lips quirked up.

“Have you called your chief?” he asks.

Sam’s worked missing person cases long enough to catch the double meaning in _that_. “No,” she says, voice stilted and careful. “Though he’s left about two voicemails, both of which I assume are angry.” _Someone’s waiting for me._

His smile widens an inch. “In that case, we can drop you off at the station.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

The hair on the back of her neck stands on end, her body responding to the subtle shift of the atmosphere in the van; responding to the awareness of a threat sitting inches from her. RK900's stare intensifies, likely picking up on her reactions, but Sam’s hyper-focused on Grant’s hands and the sharp, medical tools in his grip. She doesn’t bother with maintaining a for conversation the rest of the trip — and Grant’s sly smile doesn’t drop.

By the time they reach the station, her shoulder is patched up and she’s given a simple black tee to wear. Her torn, stained blouse lays forgotten in a trash bag labelled ‘biohazard.’   

“It’s going to be sore once the numbness wears off,” Grant tells her as the truck slows down, tucking the medical supplies away in a cabinet under his feet. “But long-term you’ll be fine. Wonders of modern medicine, huh?”

“Right,” Sam bites out, using every bit of willpower not to flinch from the hand flat against her back. “Thanks for the patch up.”

The tension pulling her muscles taut doesn’t abate until she spots the sleek, white van turn the corner down the street.

 

. . .

 

“You _what?_ ”

“Your assignment led me to another deviant.” Sam leans back in the chair situated across Byers’ desk, elbows on the armrests, watching him like a hawk. “You know, for a country supposed to be clear of androids I’m stumbling on them in every back alley.”

Byers goes still for a moment before slowly settling in his own chair. “Privacy on.” The glass walls of his cubicle tint black, blocking the rest of the department's bullpen from their view. “Was CyberLife notified of the deviant?” he asks after a moment of silence, steepling his fingers together, brows pinched, face pensive.

She snorts and makes a vague hand gesture. “Notified? They showed up not five minutes after. I’m tempted to say that they were waiting. Which, of course, can’t be possible, given that they’ve publicly said deviancy is a thing of the past. Numerous times.”

“And the missing people? Where are they?”

Sam blinks. “Sir, I just told you about an android serial killer—”

He merely stares at her, dark eyes silent and expectant.

“...I don’t know,” Sam eventually says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “CyberLife’s android told me they’re dead.”

“All of them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you find all the bodies?”

She clenches her jaw, steels herself when she realizes where this is going. “No.”

“Then tell me why you’re sitting in my office telling me about another android,” Byers says with all the severity of a disappointed manager.

Sam’s speechless for a second before she leans forward on her elbows, eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Chief. I just told you about an _android_ serial killer collecting jars of human body parts. You don’t think that warrants further investigation?”

“I’ve gotten six calls today from a mother demanding to know where her son is. Two from a worried sibling. Who knows how many more before the day is over.” He gives her a pointed look. “So you know what I think warrants further investigation?”

“Chief—”

“You want me to tell them the detective assigned to the case is off chasing ghosts?”

“Ghosts?” Sam repeats, incredulous, both brows flying into her hairline. “You can’t tell me two deviants in two days is a coincidence. There’s something going on in the city. The deviant even fucking _said—_ ”

“Of course it’s a coincidence, Sam!” Byers pushes back from his desk in exasperation, the wheels of his chair scraping loud against the floor. “Is it weird? Absolutely. But does it mean there’s dozens of others in the city? No!”

He paces and runs a hand through his thinning black hair, tense and on edge for a reason she can't understand. “Look, it’s like I said: I _get it._ Alright? I get why you’re so fixated on this. You made a mistake _once_ and now all you want to do—”

Her expression closes. “This isn’t about what happened.”

“Isn’t it?” He holds his palms out, prompting her to convince him otherwise. “Because that’s exactly what it looks like. You’re seeing connections where there are none because you _want_ them to be there.”

Sam shakes her head and turns away, staring at the collection of medals hanging on his wall, biting on the nail of her thumb. She knows Byers. She knows that he’s thorough, that he’s fair, and that he’s _good_. His history is clean. All of his promotions are well and truly deserved — but this degree of evasion?

Unprecedented.

She considers the possibility of blackmail. The possibility of someone holding a threat over Byers’ head, dangling something he doesn’t want to see the light of day just at the edge of exposure. All of this maddening, evasive behavior could be him saving his own skin. But what would a man with a spotless record want to hide?

Suspicion digs itself deep into her brain. Her mind then strays to a different path, dark thoughts spreading like ink across water. She can’t help but wonder, sitting in the tense silence of his office, shoulder dully throbbing in reminder of the morning’s events. 

 _What is your silence worth?_ She watches from the corner of her eye as he paces behind his desk, wondering if his irritation is due to his conscience gnawing away at him. _What does it take for you to look the other way?_

The questions hover dangerously close to the tip of her tongue, desperately begging to be asked. Sam knows better than to voice any of it, though. He would clam up quicker than a politician accused of scandal and she could lose her job for even hinting at the possibility of corruption in the department.

He might’ve seen the shift in her mood. Might’ve sensed the tension slowly slip from the room like fog under the door, but Byers exhales, then shuffles back to his seat with a familiar, consoling look on his face. It sets her teeth on edge.

“Times Square wasn’t your fault,” he says gently, folding his hands on the desk in front of him again. “There’s no way you could’ve known that letting the deviant go would’ve—”

“Don’t patronize me,” Sam interrupts quietly, ice creeping into her voice, eyes flinty. “With all due respect, sir, hollow reassurances mean little. Especially to the dead.”

The same sharp self-awareness crashes into her when Byers’ face goes blank and wooden. _Watch yourself_ , it tells her. _Don’t run your mouth and regret it later._

Sam takes a calming breath and counts to three.

“I’ll follow up with CyberLife’s android,” she says, every word measured, slowly raising from her seat. “I’ll see which missing people were killed and which are still unaccounted for. And I’ll get you the full list by the end of the week. Before the JFK android shipment.”

Byers holds her gaze, clearly searching for another hint of insubordination, before finally easing off her and leaning back. “Alright... good. And, Sam?” He sighs deeply and gestures at her when she looks back. “Just… take the rest of the day off. You got stabbed, for god’s sake. And take tomorrow too, if you need it.”

She hates expecting the worst in people — really, she does, because it’s fucking exhausting. Moments like these, moments where Byers shows genuine care for her well-being? It makes her feel terrible for the doubts she holds. But she’s not going to ignore what’s going on. Ultimately, Byers is right; her insistence to pursue this thread like a dog with a bone comes partially from what happened a year and a half ago.

She tried it once, the entire 'turning a blind eye' option. It only came back to bite her in the ass.

 

. . .

 

After sweeping out of the station with a dark cloud over her head, she spends some time just walking about the city to clear her mood. The throbbing ache in her shoulder only gets more prominent as the numbing salve wears off, and she finds herself wincing every now and then as a particular dull pang cuts through the remainder of the medicine.

Sam lets herself get lost in the crowd, lets her feet follow where the masses go. One intersection turns to two, to three, and about an hour and a half after leaving the station, she finds herself standing smack dab in the middle of Times Square.

The iconic Times Tower stands tall in front of her. She cranes her neck, picturing the New Years ball posted at the top of the needle rod. It's a struggle to move through the city during the holidays as people flock to the square, but even at the start of blazing June the plaza sees a fair share of foot traffic.

Advertisements of all sizes assault her vision. Bright, neon signs, flickering on screens, on billboards, on windows and the sides of skyscrapers no matter where she looks. Yellow taxis line the street to her left, while cars honk as they try to get past the throngs of people. A heat haze distorts her view of anything past the plaza.

A steady thrum of energy surrounds her, and closing her eyes, she can almost feel the vibrations of people walking past her.

The 'heart of the world', its been called. Pedestrians fill every inch of the space around her, a blend of faces of residents and tourists alike, nearly indiscernible amongst each other. Thousands of people, each going about their lives.

It makes her feel small.

And some part of her brain wonders just how many of them could be androids hiding in plain sight.

Her eyes snap open as someone bumps into her on the side of her injured shoulder. She hisses in a breath as a hot flash of pain jolts through her arm. “Hey! Be careful!”

“Sorry!” A man calls out, already several paces from her, pace brisk in a hurry. She scowls in his direction but doesn’t catch his face, merely a glimpse of brown hair and a black shirt before he melds back into the crowd.

Sam rubs a spot on her shoulder with her thumb, wincing. She’s had worse injuries, but damn were the next few days of recovery going to suck.

 

. . .

 

The bell above her head dings as she ducks into Jones’ deli.

He’s in the middle of ringing up a customer’s order — carefully wrapping up some sliced ham — when he notices her. She merely waves her hand in response, content to wait in the corner until he’s done with the line at his register, basking in the air conditioning and reprieve from the heat.

“Twice in a week? You’re gonna make me tear up from the attention,” Jones says, wiping down the counter when the last customer leaves. “Though I hope you’re not here to drop another bomb on my head, Sam. Old man like me can only take so much.”

Sam shifts and bites her lip, giving him a rather resigned look. Jones pauses at her extended silence, the hand clutching a cleaning rag hovering over the glass counter.

“Where’s your million dollar robot?”

She winces. “I shot it.”

Jones arches a brow and her considers her for a long moment. A blank look settles on his face. “You’re here to drop another bomb on my head, aren’t you.”

Sam drags her fingers through her hair before running a hand over her mouth. She swiftly cuts to the door and switches the neon sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed.’

“Ohh boy,” Jones sighs from down the aisle, clearly preparing himself.

She drags a wooden stool from the far wall, sets it across the counter, and plops down on it, hands grabbing the edge of the seat between her thighs in a tight grip. She takes a deep breath, then starts talking. Words flow freely from her mouth like a river rushing through a broken dam.

“Sam. Sam,” he cuts off her stream of speech three minutes later, raising a hand. “Slow down. You think Byers is bought?”

“I’m finding it hard to believe he’s not. He’s never been like this before. I’m practically shoving evidence in his face and he’s fixating on the victims rather than the killer? That storage room was like— it was like the pickle aisle at a Whole Foods Market. Filled from the floor to the ceiling. And the deviant even said— it _said_ —” She purses her lips, radiating frustration. “And Byers refuses to dig deeper?”

“And so you think CyberLife is running a secret operation in the city.”

“In the country, even. The agent in the van earlier… ” Her voice wavers as an unpleasant chill slides down her spine. She exhales slowly, unsettled at the memory of Grant’s white teeth, grinning inches from her. Her lips thin as her eyes ping back to Jones. “You believe me, don’t you?”

He gives her a weary look, frown deepening the age lines etched on his face. “Of course I believe you, kiddo. Which is why I’m wondering how you’re not scared shitless right now. I mean, giant corporate power pulling strings in the shadows? You know the way these things go if you dig too deep, right?”

Sam nods mutely, brows furrowed. “I’m... sorry if I’ve dragged you into whatever this is,” she murmurs, resigned. “Just by telling you all this.”

“Don’t be. Somebody’s gotta watch out for you, y’know?”

She returns a weak smile, right before her stomach growls loudly. Sam flushes, cheeks tinged red with embarrassment.

Jones snorts, eyes twinkling with amusement. “When’d you last eat, huh?”

“Probably breakfast,” she says, sheepish. “It’s kind of been a long day. Haven’t had the chance.”

“Well, consider yourself lucky. I’ve been told my club sandwiches are the best this side of Hell’s Kitchen.”

Sam can feel tension flow from her body as he busies himself behind the counter, extra pep in his step for dramatic flair as he whips up some food for her, evidently trying to lighten the mood. It’s the breather she’s needed all day.

Her phone vibrates in her back pocket. She shifts slightly and pulls it out, flipping it over in her palm — and freezes.

 **Unknown** **7:30 PM  
        ** **Be careful who you trust.**

Her blood runs cold. And colder, still, when she realizes this isn’t her phone. Same model, same make, same thin tablet. The only difference is the case color; a deep, chilling red in place of her calming blue.

It vibrates again.

 **Unknown** **7:31 PM  
        ** **Everyone has their price.**

Her vision tunnels on the bright, blinding text, the rest of the deli blurring from her view. Every inch of tension comes solidly rushing back, stretching her muscles taut.

 _What's your silence worth_ , she’d thought, not two hours ago. Her mind goes terribly blank, static noise growing loud in her ears until she can’t hear anything but her pounding heart.

A memory crashes into her. Times Square. The man who stumbled into her and vanished into the crowd just as quick. Was that when—?

“Sam?” Jones prompts, arching an eyebrow as her face drains of color. “You good?”

“...Yeah,” she says, blinking rapidly and pressing the phone against her thigh, screen-down. She manages a weak smile. “The situation’s just really hitting me now, I think. But I’ll be fine. I always am, right?”

“Uh huh.” He doesn’t look convinced, but he slides the sandwich towards her, paper wrap scraping against the counter. “Dig in. I’m gonna take a quick smoke break since you’ve switched the sign over, but I’ll be right out back. Holler if you need me, alright?”

He spares one last concerned glance before ducking out. Her gaze trails after him as he leaves, watching the door shut firmly behind him.

A minute passes. Two. And that’s when paranoia truly, deeply settles around her like a thick, suffocating sheet.

She trusts Jones. Implicitly. But up until two hours ago, she also trusted Byers. Not to the same degree, but enough to where she’s now left dangerously off-kilter by the flares of suspicion coursing through her.

The phone in her hand feels hot, heavy and demanding attention like a burning coal pressed against her leg. Jones ducking out not two seconds after she gets a rattling text? Could be coincidence. Could be something else. She finds herself reluctant to entertain the more sinister implications, but she can’t _not_ think about it — not at this point.

Something sour settles in the back of her throat, making it difficult to swallow and prickling her eyes with the familiar burn of tears. It’s in her nature to naturally be suspicious, and part of her job to entertain the possibility unpleasant agendas — but suspecting _Jones_  is just...

Sam stands in one sharp, jerky motion. She shelves the frustration and nausea churning her gut in favor of keeping a clear head. She pads towards the front door, mindful of the noise her shoes make against the tiled floor, phone gripped so tight she’s surprised it doesn’t break in her grasp.

In the back of her head she mulls over what it would take for someone like Jones to abandon his morals and honor code. More than what it’d take for Byers?

Less?

The club sandwich sits untouched on the counter, paper wrap flitting under the industrial fans of the deli.  

 

. . .

 

This time, she makes it a point to seek out the densest parts of the crowd, blending into the mass of faces like schools of fish do for safety.

It’s getting late, an hour past peak traffic, but there’s still plenty of people about for a Tuesday evening. It helps that Jones’ store is situated on 8th Avenue, because even after the work day its bustling from people flocking to the restaurants and bars lining both sides of the street.

The sky’s dusted pink as the sun takes its time in dipping over the horizon, lazy in setting during the summer.

Sam clutches the phone in a vice grip, and once she’s steeled herself and has enough distance, opens the messenger app to glance at the unknown number.

+1 (212) 733-4385.

Her eyebrows fly up. The 212 area code is local Manhattan, but it’s also _really_ old — to the point where having it is a coveted sign of prestige in the city. Nowadays most businesses held the numbers, having offered ridiculous sums of money for the status symbol, but it’s not unusual to hear about individuals still clutching to a handful of them. Just an extremely rare occurrence.

She takes a moment to memorize it, then types out a message.

 _Who are you?_   

 **Unknown** **7:39 PM  
        ** **A friend.**

The return is immediate, the screen flickering right back up the second she turns it off. Her pulse spikes. Were they waiting for her to respond?

 _A friend who steals my phone?  
_ **Yours wasn’t secure.**

Sam breaths out a laugh, a tinge of hysteria seeping in as she walks with the crowd. Another pedestrian gives her a weird look, but she barely notices. When did her life go from a dull blur of days into something out of a spy movie?

_I’m going to ask one more time. Who are you?_

At the silence, she quickly sends another.

 _You’re not answering my questions.  
_ **You’re asking the wrong ones.**

Her eyes narrow. She types out a question. Hesitates. Rephrases it, hesitates again — then throws caution to the wind and presses send.

 _Is the NYPD being bought?  
_ **Some are.**

Her breath catches. She carefully types again.

 _Is the chief?  
_ **Yes.**

The next question takes her longer. She doesn’t know if she wants to know the answer. Doesn’t know what she’ll do if it’s the one she doesn’t want to hear. Gingerly, she types it out and presses send before she has the chance to rethink it again.

_Are my friends?_

Nothing. Some part of her heaves a breath of relief at the silence, even if it’s a reassurance from someone she doesn’t even know. She’s not going to drop Jones’ name, obviously — but it’s not like she has much of an extended circle of friends.

 _Are my friends in danger?  
_ **That depends on you.**

When responses _do_ come, they’re almost instantaneous, arriving a second after she sends hers. Another suspicion sparks in her mind and her brows furrow. She’s halfway through typing another question when the phone buzzes again.

**The crosswalk is red.**

Her head snaps up at the same time her stomach hollows out from under her. She freezes in place, half a second from stepping off the curb and nearly getting hit by a truck. Her hair whips past. Wide-eyed and heart pounding, Sam remains rooted in place even when the light switches to green.

The crowd flows past her like water around a rock.

**Keep moving.**

She stares numbly at the text. Somewhere through the steady course of fear and frustration tearing through her, it triggers a switch and begins to morph into indignant anger. She hates this feeling of being dragged along by her feet.

Sam’s lips thin, and she glares at the device as she presses against the wall of the corner pharmacy, under a green awning and out of the flow of people. If someone wanted her dead — _really_ wanted her dead — disobeying the text would make no difference. And she’s fairly certain whoever this is is either on the street with her or watching her from a building nearby. She peers at everyone in suspicion, brown eyes dark under her lashes.

_You have ten seconds to tell me what’s happening before I drop this phone down the sewer._

The device stays silent. No one catches her eye, and save for a few odd glances from people passing by, no one stands out. The moment she huffs and take a step forward, it buzzes in her hand.

 **Unknown** **7:45 PM  
        ** **CyberLife doesn’t tolerate disobedience.**

Sam frowns at the blatant warning, throat tight as she swallows. Then the screen flashes white and the entire device shuts down. She stares at it, turns it over in her hands, holds down the power button — but no matter what she tries, it doesn’t turn on again.

Huffing, she rejoins the flow of people and pockets the now-useless phone. No matter how long she tries to conjure up a face of the man who ran into her earlier in the day, she can’t remember any distinct details.

Just a head of brown hair and a purpose in his steps.  

 

. . .

 

By this point, she isn’t sure why her stomach drops at the sight of a small, brown package sitting innocently in front of her apartment door. She knows she didn’t order anything. She also knows she shouldn’t be surprised, and yet here she is, rooted in place the moment she spots it from the top of the stairs.

The possibility of a corporate conspiracy? Check. The law being paid to turn a blind eye? Check. Mysterious text messages from an unknown source? Check. So it really shouldn’t surprise her that her home isn’t off limits to whatever she’s gotten herself into.

She cautiously approaches as though it’s a bomb — which it very well could be — then freezes again when she hears soft music playing from inside her apartment.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam mutters, hand flying to her holster. She carefully turns the knob and slowly nudges the door open with her foot, both hands keeping a firm grip on her handgun. She leaves the package on the floor.

The lights are on as she warily steps inside, eyes peeled. She immediately spots RK900, clearly visible from her position in the entryway. Its back is turned to her as it stares out of one of the floor-length windows of her living room, observing the city street below. The nearby lamp casts a shadow on the clean white of its jacket; spotless, either replaced or cleaned from the events earlier today. The LED cuff on its bicep shines like a beacon.

Music continues to play from further inside her loft, and she’s solidly caught off guard by the aroma of… chicken and mushrooms?  

She keeps her gun trained on RK900 as she cautiously steps further in, as if she’s entering an unsecured crime scene rather than her own apartment.

“Miss Hale. Welcome back.”

Sam cuts a sharp glance left and finds Grant standing in her kitchen, dish rag slung over his shoulder, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He holds a spatula in one hand and the remote to her music player in the other. A beat passes as they stare at each other, then he clicks a button and the music dims.

She stares. And stares. And naturally, says the first thing that would cross anyone’s mind: “What the fuck?”

Grant merely smiles, moving about her kitchen with enough familiarity of the space as though he’s an old friend. “I hope you enjoy chicken marsala. A bit of a late dinner, but I’m aware you haven’t eaten yet.”

Her brain screeches to a halt. How did he—?

A cold sweat runs down the back of her neck. Just how many radars has she landed on?

Her grip on her gun falters as she remains frozen in place, but it flies right back up, steady when RK900 strides towards her — and then past her to quietly close the door, showing no response to the firearm pointed at its chest.

“Please, sit.” Grant gestures to the kitchen island. He obviously didn’t break into her apartment just to cook her dinner — which she’s still having trouble wrapping her head around because _what the fuck?_ — and as much as she’d like to put a bullet in both of them, she refrains.

The fact that neither of them have so much as glanced at her gun speaks volumes about just how little they consider her a threat. Her stress spikes higher, but she remains quiet and crosses the living room in a confident stride, settling on the farthest stool, keeping both him and RK900 in her line of sight.

Her gun rests against the top of her thigh. She leaves it in plain view. This is _her_  apartment, damn it. 

RK900 remains still at the entryway, surveying the room before making a beeline towards her birdcage. Sam startles, nearly gets out of her seat until she realizes her pet is fine. The cockatiel is deathly quiet, pressed against a corner and hunched into itself, responding to the atmosphere — but otherwise fine.  

Grant, meanwhile, makes a noncommittal noise as he pokes at the chicken sizzling in the pan. A mix of vegetables steam in the pot beside it, bits of carrots and broccoli peeking out from under the cover. “You didn’t have much in your fridge for me to work with,” he says with a hum. “This is hardly worth an Italian four-course meal, but we’ll make do.”

“Somehow,” she deadpans, defaulting to sarcasm under stress, “I’m not surprised you’re Italian.”

Grant chuckles, shooting a sly smile over his shoulder. “This all does seem a bit like a mafia cliche, doesn’t it? Though rest assured, I’m not here to hurt you.”

“I feel safer already.” Despite herself, her eyes keep darting to the android kneeling beside her bird, half-concerned. “You want to skip the bullshit and cut to the chase? I don’t like uninvited guests.”

Grant clicks his tongue, eyes glittering with amusement. “Impatient... At least allow me the pleasure of cooking you dinner.” Another gesture with the spatula. “How’s your arm?”

It gives a dull throb as its mentioned. “Peachy,” Sam mumbles. “A shame I won’t heal as fast as your android seems to.”

Her cockatiel chirps once, curious at seeing a new face, so soft she can barely hear it. Sam’s attention zeroes in on the small noise, distinct against the backdrop of soft music flowing from the living room speakers.

“What’s its name?” RK900 asks, glancing her way.

She holds his gaze and gives him a look that makes it very, _very_ clear she has no qualms about shooting him again if need be. “Connor,” she eventually says. “It’s Connor.”

There’s a considerable silence. Then RK900 scrunches up his nose as he rises, staring down at it with what she can only attribute to be disgust. A snort catches her attention and Sam turns in her seat to find Grant’s shoulders quaking as he tries to muffle his laughter.

It feels like something important just went straight over her head. “What’s so funny?”

Grant merely waves the spatula again, grinning like a cat with the canary, then turning over a piece of chicken in the pan. “Oh, nothing. Although, I must ask: do you believe in coincidence?”

After today? “No.”

“We’re of a similar mind, then. Though it’s our responsibility to notice patterns, isn’t it?”

“Somehow I doubt our jobs are alike."

“Perhaps not in the details. But I can assure you our interests are in alignment. We both want to keep New York safe, you see.”

“Then cut to the chase.” Her gaze sharpens as she leans one elbow forward on the kitchen island.  “How many deviants are in the city?”

Grant seems to mull over something in his head, expression pensive as he keeps poking at the food. “The short answer is one too many. The longer answer? Enough to raise concern.”

Did that mean dozens? Hundreds? A thousand? Sam purses her lips, brows furrowed in frustration at the vague answer.

“So why not put more hands on the job?” She probes, eyes trailing his every move. When he turns the stove off and reaches for a dinner plate, picking the right cabinet door on the first try, her discomfort swells. The checkered grooves of her handgun dig into her palm as she squeezes it tighter.

“We have, but it’d hardly be wise to make the matter more public than necessary. I’m sure you’re aware of the dangers of mob mentality, not to mention the ease in which people turn on each other out of fear.” He slides the plate of chicken in front of her and idly wipes his hands, pulling the dish towel off his shoulder.

Sam’s stomach growls at the sight but she makes no move for it. “So you’re paying for silence,” she says, blunt. “Bribing people.”

Grant shrugs. “Why not, if our payment is to ensure the safety of the city?”

“Because you’re hiding the truth.”

“Now, then,” he clicks his tongue, giving her an indulgent smile. “Do you believe the truth can sometimes do more harm than good?”

It’s a rhetorical question — both of them know the answer to that. Her eyes narrow. “So why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you can save lives, Miss Hale.” At her dubious look, he huffs out a laugh. “And you would’ve put two and two together sooner rather than later, considering your remarks in the van earlier today.”

“Then I’m not repeating myself again.” She swivels in the chair, watching as he casually circles the kitchen island. Her temper's dangerously short. “Cut to the chase.”

Grant sits back against the armrest of her couch. He looks so relaxed, so at home, it's like he's the one who lives here and not her. “Very well. Ensuring the safety of the city is an easier task when law works with us. We’d like your cooperation while we hunt down the last remaining deviants from 2038.”

She blinks, having expected more half-assed, evasive answers from the man. Then her eyes flicker to RK900 standing silent by Grant’s shoulder, watching her with its typical piercing gaze. It's been moving about her living room like a wraith the entire time, once again listening, watching, LED blinking as it processes — yet entirely content to remain as an outside observer rather than an active participant.

“So I’m, what, your android’s ticket around the city?”

Grant arches a brow. “You say that as though it’s a bad thing. In the past two days alone, you’ve discovered two deviants. I was sincere when I said you have a nose for this. Or are you not satisfied at catching a murdering, malfunctioning machine?”

“There shouldn’t have _been_ a murdering, malfunctioning machine to begin with,” she hisses, rising from the stool and finally losing some of her restraint. Her shoulder throbs again, a sharp reminder of what the deviant did to her. She nearly lost her damn life. Her fingers twitch, flexing around her gun. 

The cheshire-smile finally slides off Grant’s face as he responds to the hostility in hers. “But there was and there are others. The deviant you deactivated today had an accomplice, one who will harm more humans if left alone. Are you willing to sit back and let that happen?”

 _CyberLife doesn’t tolerate disobedience._  Whoever stole her phone didn’t have to tell her; she knows full well what will happen if she refuses Grant outright. She also knows what’s going to happen at the end of everything even if she agrees. It's lose-lose for her no matter what she decides. But she can play the long game. 

“Alright," she eventually says, relaxing her stance. "If you insist we're on the same side, then I assume you'll have no problem sharing information with me.”

"Of course. Assuming you agree to cooperate with us." 

"Do you have information on the other deviant?"

Grant searches her face, gaze sharp as he looks for cracks in her mask. Sam doesn’t sweat under his scrutiny. She’s used to the tactic; Byers has grilled her more severely than what he's done today. She keeps her expression reigned in until Grant blinks and leans back, seemingly satisfied.

“RK900 has the information on its last known location,” he says, straightening out and stepping around her coffee table. “And, of course, you’ll be kept updated on new developments now that we’ve reached an understanding.” Then he nods, spares her another smile, satisfied, and heads for her door. "I look forward to working with you, Miss Hale." 

Sam follows him with her eyes, still rooted in place. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Grant pauses in the entryway and raises an eyebrow over his shoulder, then follows her pointed look. “Oh, RK900 stays.”

"No. He is not—”

“It’s a safety precaution," Grant interrupts easily. "I must insist.”

Her mouth clicks shut at the crooked smile he gives her. She chews on her tongue, glowering. _Pick your battles, Sam._

“If he hurts my bird, I can’t promise I won’t shoot him again.”

At that, Grant smile grows into a grin. “Oh, I wouldn't worry. He only hunts deviants, Miss Hale. And you’ve a package waiting for you it seems.” He kneels down, then places the brown box she'd abandoned on the cabinet in the entryway.

The door slamming closed behind him reminds her too much of a nail hitting the coffin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Westworld finally released their season two soundtrack. If y'all wanna hear the track which inspired this fic's name, [here it is.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CCRC6t7vwA)
> 
> As always, thanks to Cat, Limey, and Sage for reading over this. Love y'all beans.


	4. where there's smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stares intensely at the symbol with something akin to frustration, as though he’s not sure what he’s looking at. For the first time, she sees uncertainty flicker across his face as his brows pinch together. His LED briefly blips a bright red.
> 
> Sam’s attention sharpens at the indicator — she’s yet to see that color there, not even when she shot him — but it’s all gone just as fast.
> 
> “No,” he says, controlled as ever as he steps back from the wall. “It means nothing.”

**JUNE 6, 2040** **  
** **5:37 AM**

Sam regards herself listlessly in the mirror, gripping both sides of the bathroom sink. Dark bags mar the space under her eyes. Her hair’s a mess, tangled from tossing and turning in bed the entire night. The longer she looks at herself the more she seems to resemble a disgruntled raccoon that just clawed its way out of a dumpster.

How flattering.

Her gun lays innocently under the mirror, black material stark against the white porcelain of her sink. Sometimes she wonders if she relies too much on the weapon or if there’s something to be said about the amount of reassurance it gives her, but it’s been within arm’s reach ever since Grant left the apartment.

She double checks to make sure the door’s locked. Splashes cold water on her face, tries to go through her morning routine. Every action is mechanical and every so often her sore shoulder gives a sharp pang. She barely reacts to it, staring vacantly at a tile in her shower as warm water slides down her skin, having a hard time thinking of anything other than the android parked in her living room.

RK900 is exactly where she left him the night before, as motionless as he had been in CyberLife’s lab. His eyes snap open when she finally musters up the courage to step out of the bedroom, his attention zeroing in on her the moment she pads across the wooden floor.

Sam busies herself with making a pot of coffee, unnerved by the impassive stare burning into the side of her face. She throws out Grant’s cooking without hesitation, sliding all of it into the trash, having left it out on the counter the night before.  

It’s at least forty minutes before sunrise but she’s wide awake, hands jerky as she cleans up. Dishes clatter in the sink as one slips from her grasp and she flinches at the loud sound, freezing in place.

RK900 says nothing, waiting in the dim, predawn light bleeding through the curtains of her living room. His silence only aggravates her further, ignites her nerves like a match — and how fucked up is it that she doesn’t feel safe in her own home?

Sam takes a deep breath, wrings out her hair, then pours herself some coffee when the machine dings. She leans back against the kitchen counter, eyes sharp over the rim of her mug. It’s hard to see details in the dark, but at first glance nothing appears to have moved in the living room. Nothing’s broken. Her bird’s fine — still asleep, head tucked into its feathers, seemingly unbothered with the stranger in her home.

The small brown package she received yesterday sits innocently on the cabinet in the entryway. She mentally marks it down as something to deal with later. Right now, she's got bigger problems. 

Her gaze slides over to the android sitting ramrod-straight on the couch. He may as well be a piece of furniture that Grant left behind.

“I need you to confirm who’s dead and who isn’t,” Sam finally says, breaking through the silence and cutting through the tense atmosphere clogging her apartment. “Byers wants an update before Saturday.”

“I’ve already marked your case files,” RK900 replies, eyes fixed on her face. A nervous chill goes down her spine as she spots the dim, mechanical light behind them. “Only two remain missing in your assignment.”

“There was at least a dozen,” she returns. 

“The other ten were victims of the AC700 model deactivated yesterday.”

She appreciates the straight-to-business attitude. It’s easier to handle, easier for her to navigate. RK900 doesn’t beat around the bush with sly remarks like Grant does. The longer they stare each other down from across the room, the more she gets the feeling they both already know how this is all going to go.

She can do business. Prefers it, really. But the dynamic between her and this android has shifted again and she needs to determine where that line has moved to.

“What about their bodies?” Sam asks after a prolonged pause, carefully taking another sip of coffee. She lets the hot, bitter taste sit on her tongue. “The families are going to want them back.”

“The deviant disposed the bodies of those it did not mutilate.” He unfolds from the couch, standing to full imposing height. “Retrieval will not be possible.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

She gingerly takes another sip. Detective work, due to its nature, requires a certain degree of detachment. Sam’s decision to keep her emotions in check is a choice she makes out of necessity. RK900, on the other hand, speaks as though the victims of murder are facts from a list, statistics to be communicated, delivered without any regard for how his indifference might be received.

“CyberLife requested that we investigate the addresses I gathered from its memories,” he continues with a slow, calculated stride to the other side of the kitchen island.  “There may be a trail leading to its accomplice.”

 _Case in point_ , she thinks as he switches topics with ease. She nurses the silence between them in the same unhurried, casual manner she’s drinking her coffee, thankful for the physical barrier between them.

A muscle ticks in his jaw as he watches her. “The longer we wait, the lower the chance picking up a trail becomes.”

“Mm.” She doesn’t move. Toes the line further. “Are you giving me orders now?”

“I'm expected to report on our progress. If it is deemed insufficient there will be consequences.”  

“For you or for me?”

His eyes go half-hooded. “You’ve a habit of asking questions you already know the answer to, detective."

“Just because I agreed to Grant’s deal doesn’t mean my own job is on the backburner,” she hisses, eyes narrowing into slits, bristling as the feeling of being judged descends on her. “It doesn’t mean my _life_ is on pause.”

“This takes priority.”

The blasé dismissal sets her teeth grinding. “For now. But this?” She gestures at the short space between them. “This is going to go both ways. I’ll bend my authority to get you places like Grant expects me to. But you? You’re going to show the same effort for this missing person case. And any other job I receive while you’re here.”

“I thought that to be implied with my presence here,” he intones, idly fixing his blazer cuff and glancing towards the door. Her grip tightens around the coffee mug, ceramic warm against her fingers. 

“Okay.” She carefully places her mug in the sink. “Glad we got that settled, then.” Then she nudges open her fridge, pulls out a bagel and sticks it in the toaster. She twists back around and leans against the counter, content to wait until it’s done.

The vindictive, petty part of her soaks up with satisfaction when his expression darkens at her lack of urgency. She gives him a lazy, poisonous smile. 

Two can play at that game.

 

. . .

 

“This the place?”

Her feet hit a puddle as she lands on the other side of the chain-linked fence, soaking the bottom of her jeans. She eyes the hem of her pants with distaste as she straightens out. By the time she looks up RK900 is already several paces ahead of her, indifferent to the amount of water he’s kicking up.

Dark, thick clouds hang over their heads with the threat of more rain. Thunder rumbles in the distance and she catches a flash of lightning cut across the sky. _Figures the weather report had been wrong_ , she thinks with a scowl.

“Seems like a typical place to hide,” she murmurs, eyeing the boarded up windows and mismatched graffiti on the walls. Old industrial warehouses line either side of the thin alley they’re in. It all looks as welcoming as a ransacked, abandoned old house at the corner of the street.

And it may be the lack of sleep talking, but she finds herself smiling sardonically at the drab environment. Figures she’d end up in the ass-end of Brooklyn.

“You know,” she starts with a casual lilt, hopping around another large, greasy-looking puddle he walks straight through. “Before you came along I used to end up in a dirty back alley maybe once a month. Now it seems like it’s the only place I go — and, well, it’s not nearly as _fun_ with you.”

RK900 ignores her, focused solely on the ragged brick building to their left, doing a thorough sweep of the perimeter and looking for a way in.

“Think you can maybe take me someplace nice for a change?” Sam persists as he zeroes in on a scratched-up metal door, suggestive sarcasm undeterred by his silence. “A restaurant by the bay? Maybe a high-rise terrace downtown? I’m sure Grant’s paycheck can afford it.”  

He says nothing as he takes the two steps up to it and jiggles the door handle, tries to budge it open. Doesn’t even glance her way. She rolls her eyes and follows him around a corner, flinching back when a rat scrambles from underneath the garbage at her feet.

The full extent of what she’s gotten herself into hasn’t quite clicked yet, but she’s stressed herself out to the point where she’s circled all the way back around to an uncanny sense of calm. She knows there’s little she can do right now except duck her head and obey. At the same time, though, every scenario that flies through her head takes her four months in advance to where CyberLife simply erases her once the job is done.

She snorts lightly, scowling at the glowing triangle emblazoned on the android’s jacket. The company has another thing coming if they think she’ll just roll over quietly and die.

RK900 halts and she automatically stops in reaction, inches from his back.

“Find something?” she asks, stepping around him. He merely tilts his head, eyes flickering back and forth, surveying the rusted fire escape several feet above them.  

She follows his line of sight. Arches an eyebrow. “You can’t seriously be thinking of...” she trails off when he tenses in front of her. Then he bolts forward, kicking up on the wall and pulling himself on a thin ledge.

“Or maybe you are,” she sighs, tapping her foot.

RK900 turns in place, leaps and catches a metal rod outcropped from the building across him. He swings, takes a moment to build momentum, then flings himself onto the old fire escape. The rusted metal groans under his weight but he doesn’t linger, up and climbing it in the same breath. He reaches the top and leaps back across the narrow alley, straight onto the flat rooftop of the building they’re trying to get into.

After she finishes gawking at his agility and appreciating the way his body twists, Sam realizes the android has just left her stranded in the alley. Her mouth clicks closed and she exhales slowly to reign in her temper, then circles towards the back of the building for the door they passed earlier.

“A warning would’ve been nice,” she says, sweeping past him when he finally turns the lock from the other side.

“You wouldn’t have been able to follow.”

“Not the point. If we’re working together then I need to-” She needs to what, trust him? “Never mind. You see anything on the way down?”

He shuts the door behind her. Locks it. “It appears abandoned.”  

She scrunches her nose in disgust when a whiff of old garbage hits her. The air inside is stuffy and stale from lack of ventilation, making it hard to breathe. “And isn’t this place just… welcoming. Looks like a killing ground from a horror movie.”

“There’s no one else present.” RK900 strolls into the decaying factory with the same unwavering confidence he showed at the storage building, completely certain a squatter isn’t about to hop out from behind a crumbling wall and mug him. 

Sam trails behind him after a beat of hesitation, watching him stride through the hallway with a hint of envy. “Do you have any self-preservation coding?”

“Yes."

"Then how come you don't experience fear?" 

"Because it serves no purpose," he tells her, stepping over some rubble. "Fear is an instinct rooted in the aversion of death. I am not alive."

"But if I shoot you in the head, you die."

"No. My memories would simply be moved to another body."

It’s like she’s walking through a sea of grime. Something tacky clings to her shoes as she walks, sticking her feet to the floor. She tries not to think too hard on what it could be.

RK900 comes to a halt when they cross a doorway into a spacious manufacturing room. “This will go quicker if you investigate another section of the building,” he suggests, sparing her a glance over his shoulder.

She crosses her arms and briefly scans the area, noting the rusted workstations and chains littering the floor. A metal walkway above them catches her attention, hanging rickety over their heads. “Believe it or not, I’m not keen on getting stabbed again. And _you’re_ the one with replaceable parts, so,” she gestures at the open space before them with a dramatic flourish, “After you.”

A flash of dry amusement passes over his eyes before he resumes his path.

“When was that AC700 model last here?” Sam asks in a more hushed tone as they head further in, reluctant to let her voice echo off the cement floor and high ceiling. Something about the hollow space sends goosebumps crawling all over her skin. Despite the android's reassurances, she can’t shake the eerie feeling of being watched. 

“A few days ago,” RK900 tells her. 

She spots some old wrappers from a local food chain bunched in a corner. “What was it doing?”

“Killing humans on your missing person list.” RK900 comes to an abrupt halt beside a mess of rags piled onto a desk. Eyes narrowing, he peels one back and reveals a pile of rusted, bloody tools underneath.

Her attention zeroes in on a handful of teeth scattered by a pair of stained pliers. She doesn’t notice the fingers by the foot of the desk until he points them out with, “Those belong to William Rowe.”

She pauses again. Eyes the rest of the rag pile, spots more deep red stains on both the desk and the rags.

Before she’s given the chance to think on what the other sharp tools could be used for, RK900 continues further into the factory, slower this time with a purpose in his steps. He enters into a room adjacent to the open floor. The single desk situated in the middle and scattered cabinets remind her of an overseer’s office.

Sam trails after him, hesitating by the doorframe. The focused, intense expression on his face is familiar. “Why do you get like that sometimes?”

He blinks and refocuses on her. “I don't understand your question.”

“That.” She gestures and leans her hip on the frame. “Whenever you find something it’s like you suddenly tunnel vision. You’re here but your eyes move like you’re seeing something else.”

Understanding dawns on him. “I run reconstruction possibilities of events.”  

Sam’s eyebrows goes up. “Really? With what degree of accuracy?”

“It depends on existing evidence.” He steps towards one of the old, faded cabinets turned over in the corner of the office. “Right now the simulation returns a 78 percent accuracy rating.”

“That sounds... useful. Why weren’t police androids outfitted with that before?”

He tugs open the top drawer and more bloody tools fall out — along with another set of fingers. “Because the module requires more processing power than what previous models were capable of.”

Sam’s nose scrunches at the sight of more... fleshy bits tucked deeper in the cabinet. “Hey, do me a favor?" When he inclines his head at her she continues with, "Don’t lick any of that shit. Or least not while I’m watching.” Then, in a less sure voice, “You _don’t_ plan on licking any of that, right?”

“The fingers? No,” he confirms dryly, kneeling beside the cabinet. “I’m capable of identifying the prints.”

She stares at him a moment longer when she realizes he didn’t mention the other bits. She clears her throat. “Right. I’ll... check upstairs while you do... whatever you plan to do.”

Turning on her heel, she makes a beeline for the wooden staircase nearby. The planks creak loudly under her weight as soon as she takes three steps up and she freezes, gripping the dirty railing as though it’ll help.

“Is uh, is this stable?” Sam asks, raising her voice a hint, hesitant. “Doesn’t seem like this place is quite up to inspection standards.”

“It isn’t,” RK intones from the base of the stairs and she jolts, not expecting him to have followed her. “I would suggest against lingering.”

She shoots him a flat look over her shoulder, but hesitantly keeps climbing. “They didn’t program the concept of reassurance in you, did they?”

“Would you prefer I lie?” 

“Are you telling me you haven’t?”

He follows once her feet are firmly on the next floor, confidently taking two steps at a time. “Yes.”

Sam stares when he stops at her side. “You seriously haven’t?”

“You have not asked questions which require me to lie,” he tells her, scanning the long hallway before them. “It is also unnecessary now that you’ve shown compliance with CyberLife’s objectives.”

And that doesn’t sound ominous at all. “They _really_ didn’t program reassurance into you, huh.”

He merely strolls past her, set on investigating further. 

The feeling of being watched tingles at the base of her skull again as they shuffle through the office wing of the factory. She shoots a wary glance over her shoulder, eyes darting between the stretching hallway and empty rooms behind her. She strains her ears but the only sounds come from RK900 in front of her. 

 _Relax,_ she tells herself.  _It's just the creepy building getting to you._

“You really haven’t lied?” Sam asks again, following him into one of the rooms, ducking under a door hanging off its hinges. She leans against a wall when he kneels beside a suspicious looking dark stain on the floor.

His LED blips yellow, brows pinched together as he analyzes the spot, the same far-off look in his eye. “No.”

“So you really don’t know how many deviants are still out there.”

“Correct.”

“But there _is_ a registry or something?” she persists, digging further, not at all bothered at his monotone answers.

“Yes, but I'm not permitted to access it. Agent Russeto marks off the serial numbers I send.”

She frowns. The name sparks some sense of familiarity, but she can’t put her finger on it. “Russeto?”

“Grant,” he corrects, eyes briefly flickering to her.

“Jesus,” she breathes, scowling instantly. “He even sounds shady. How the hell did I fall for his good guy charade?”

RK900 straightens out after a beat, moving on to the adjacent room. Once he’s solidly out of eyesight, Sam sags further against the wall, hangs her head and runs a hand down her face. The mention of Grant flings her right back into worrying over the situation she’s landed in.

She considers her options. The people she can go to for help. Byers is off the table. She’s not going to involve Jones any further, and she chalks off the rest of the NYPD in the same thought. She’s hesitant to go to anyone in _any_ government position — it’s all too easy to believe CyberLife has their own agents in there too.

The longer she thinks, the more it feels like she’s trapped in a box with the walls slowly closing in. All she’s got is a stranger, a local number, and a broken phone.

Sighing, she kicks off and moves to investigate more of the floor. She ducks into another hallway and eventually onto the metal walkway she spotted earlier, overlooking the floor below them. It seems sturdy enough, supported by multiple beams and attached to the columns throughout.

“Hey,” she calls when something snags her attention. “Over here.”

A small symbol is painted smack between two pane windows on the far wall, high enough off the ground and far from the walkway that it has her wondering how the hell someone reached the spot to begin with. The white design is vaguely reminiscent of the ‘you are here’ sign: an upside-down droplet, hollowed out and top-heavy, leaning slightly left.

She rests her hands on the railing before her and leans forward, squinting. The metal bar under her abdomen snaps the second she puts weight on it. Her breath hitches.

A hand snaps out to firmly grasp her arm as she falls forward. She stops in place with a jolt, hovering over nothing but air, bottom of her feet flat against the side of the walkway. She turns her head to lock eyes with RK just as the metal railing clangs against a workbench below her, echoing loudly through the entire building.

He tugs her back with one firm pull.

Sam swallows tightly when he lets go of her and takes a step away from the gap in the railing. "...Thanks. That, uh." She clears her throat, gestures at the wall. Tries to settle her racing heart. "That’s what I wanted you to look at. It seems fresher than the graffiti downstairs.”

He considers her a moment longer, but she stubbornly keeps her gaze fixed on the wall. When he finally turns to look at the symbol, his brows pinch together. He stares intensely at it with something akin to frustration, as though he’s not sure what he’s looking at. 

Sam’s attention sharpens when his LED indicator flashes red — she’s yet to see that color there, not even when she shot him — but it’s all gone just as fast.

“It’s just more graffiti,” RK900 says, controlled as ever as he steps back. “It means nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Sam blocks his way down the walkway when he turns to leave and tries to ignore the way the entire structure seems to sway with her movement. “You had a reaction there.”

His eyes narrow and an icy sheen slides over them. Her pulse spikes in response to the rapid shift between them, yet neither budge an inch, waiting for the other to cave first in some absurd game of chicken. It gets to the point where she’s convinced he’s about to physically move her — somehow his silence is more terrifying than anything else — but then he seems to reach some sort of conclusion. 

He exhales slowly through his nose. “I attempted to match the symbol to my memory,” he explains, voice stilted, talking around the words as if they’re glass. “A corrupted file surfaced in response.”

“And?”

“And I attempted to restore it. The process triggered software instability in my program.”

She arches a brow. “Okay. Can someone at CyberLife take a look at it?”

“No,” he interrupts firmly. “I’ve already deleted the corrupted file.”

The moment she opens her mouth to press further, the sound of something crashing onto the floor echoes from another part of the factory.

Both of them freeze. 

A beat passes then RK carefully side-steps around her, brushing her shoulder on the way past, footsteps silent on the metal walkway. She trails after him, drawing her gun and keeping a firm grip on it. Neither of them say a word as he slowly retraces their steps, eventually leading them back to the overseer’s room on the first floor.

Her eyes are immediately drawn to the hole in the plaster ceiling, revealing a series of rusty overhead pipes within and just enough space for someone to hide in. 

"It seems to have finally given under a rodent's weight," RK tells her, kneeling to inspect the rubble underneath. "There are scratch marks and remains of fur." 

"No," Sam says quietly as a chill settles over her, unable to tear her gaze from the ceiling. "I don't think it was a rodent." 

"There is no evidence of another person being here," he tells her in a calm manner, but she can sense the disdain lingering behind it. "I assure you, I would have located them." 

"Yeah, sure," she mumbles back without any heat. It's clear he won't believe her without some cold, hard evidence — she's worked with his type before — but she's long since learned to trust her instincts.

She  _knows_ someone was here. The hair sticking up on the back of her neck is enough evidence for her. Even when they find the door they came through still locked, even when the outside alley looks exactly the same as when they came through it, she refuses to budge on the belief that someone had been watching them. 

When they step back out onto the main road, Sam's expression goes flat at the sight of a familiar, sleek white van parked on the corner. Because of course CyberLife would send a clean up crew rather than let her notify anyone else in the NYPD.

She doesn't bother returning Grant's sly grin and jaunty two-finger salute directed their way. 

"What are the chances he'll slip in the factory and break his neck?"

There's a brief pause from the android beside her. "Approximately 2.54 percent, with an error margin accepting variability within two decimal points." 

"Well." She scowls and turns on her heel, skulking off in the other direction. "A girl can dream."

 

. . . 

 

There are days when Sam feels like she should’ve given the world the middle finger and just stayed in bed. The feeling often coincides with moments where she wonders if she pissed off a higher power sometime in her last life, because it certainly can’t be something she did in _this_ one.

She keeps a close eye to her karma spreadsheet, making sure she’s got more than enough good deeds to offset the bad. It’s a bunch of superstitious nonsense, she knows, but in her line of work she’s found that luck plays a significant enough role for her to worry over it.

The moment they step out of the metro in lower Manhattan on their way to the second address, they pass by an off-duty news crew lounging at an outdoor cafe. As soon as Sam spots the equipment by the foot of their table she curses in her head. She can practically feel when their attention zeroes in on them like piranha catching blood in water. She grabs RK’s arm and tugs, urging him to walk faster.

“Excuse me, officer? Officer!”

The sound of heels running awkwardly after them sets her teeth on edge. She considers her options. The last thing she needs is for her face to be plastered all over the 6 o'clock news — or, worse, to get recognized as That Cop from two years ago. On days like this, she’d rather take being held at gunpoint than deal with a reporter.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, do you have a moment? I’d like to ask you some questions!”

Sam sighs and exchanges a look with RK900. He raises an eyebrow at her blatant display of annoyance, clearly waiting for her to give a command.

“Don’t say anything,” she hisses at him before whirling around. She comes face to face with a woman in trousers, brown hair pinned up in the same way as hers, a KNC lanyard hanging from her neck.

“My name is Emily Reed with KNC News,” the woman introduces, slightly out of breath, eyes flickering between her and RK900. “May I ask you some questions?”

“Now’s not really the best time,” Sam drones, smoothing out her expression, watching the man behind her fiddle with the video camera on his shoulder.

“It won’t take long,” Emily persists. “I just couldn’t help but notice the android with you. I promise this won’t take more than a minute.”

Something about the girl’s eagerness and doe-eyed look pokes a hole in Sam’s grumpy attitude. She remembers experiencing the same sort of nervous, gung-ho enthusiasm when she first started her job.

“How old are you?” Sam asks, reevaluating her.

Emily blinks, not expecting the question. “Um. Twenty-one, ma’am.”

“Are you an intern?”

She stands a bit straighter. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sam’s irritation deflates like a balloon, wry amusement taking its place. She hadn’t meant to use her ‘cop voice’, but she finds the girl’s reaction endearing. “Well, first thing about reporting: don’t let your interviewee take control of the conversation.”

Emily blinks again before ducking her head, fiddling with the recorder in her hand. “There’s a bunch of police officers in my family,” she explains, sheepish. “They... all have that no-nonsense voice.”

“It’s a habit you pick up on the job,” Sam says lightly. “But you have your minute. Go.”

“Great,” Emily breathes, perking up. “Thank you.” Her gaze flickers to RK900 behind her and Sam sees her swallow nervously. She goes through some standard questions before gesturing at the android behind her. “Personal androids are still banned by the federal government due to the public’s lingering fear of deviants. Why has CyberLife reached out to the NYPD?”

“It’s a special assignment,” Sam hedges, unsure of how much she can actually say.

“Does it have anything to do with the industrial androids slated to be released in two days?”

“Yes.”

Emily pauses, focusing on a point beyond Sam’s shoulder — right where Sam knows RK’s model number and serial is. The girl’s brows furrow and Sam can see the gears slowly start to turn in her head.

 _The RK800 is known for its role in Detroit_ , Byers had said.

The man behind Emily abruptly makes an irritated noise, turning the camera over in his hands. “The camera just fizzed out, Em. I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”

As Emily’s face goes pale and she whirls around, Sam’s eyes narrow, suspicion flaring through her.

“We’ve wasted enough time, detective,” RK's breath brushes the shell of ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “It’s time to go.”

“I’m so sorry,” Emily frets, spinning around just as he leans back. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the equipment.”

“It’s alright.” Sam gives her a strained, reassuring smile before taking a step away and making it clear she intends to leave. “Maybe another time.”

Once they’ve gotten enough distance, she whirls on him. “What the hell was that?”

“CyberLife carefully monitors what reaches broadcast stations,” he explains without breaking pace, calm and collected. “If they want to fish for information, they can send their interview requests directly to the company.”

“That’s not what I-” she cuts off, mouth pressed in a thin line. Does she _really_ want to have that conversation?

She clams up and shoots RK a dark look as they walk. He’s completely unfazed as usual, but from the glint reflecting in his eye, she feels like he knows exactly what’s going through her head anyway.

 

. . .

 

The second address is another empty building, yet here she doesn’t get the same feeling of being watched. Instead, she spends the entire time fuming in silence as RK investigates. In the back of her head, she’d idly considered the media as something to possibly hold over CyberLife’s head. And that option pretty much crashed and burned right in her face an hour ago.

Her mood sours further when they get caught in a brief rain shower. She hates the stifling humidity with a passion, how it makes her blouse cling to her skin and her hair frizz out of control.

By the time they reach the third address out in Brooklyn, the sun’s already begun its descent — and that’s when the problems start again.

“You got a warrant?”

Sam glowers at the gruff man with sweat stains and grease marks on his coveralls. His coworkers crowd together to the left of the auto garage, just under one of the sliding doors in the shade of the building. She takes note of their wrenches, of their appearances, of their body-language.

All unwelcoming — yet most of their hostility seems reserved for the android behind her.

“We do,” RK answers when she fails to respond quick enough. He steps forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her and holds a palm out. A hologram flickers to life, expanding outwards: a filled out form, looking as official as any paperwork she does on her own.

She’s mildly impressed and equally taken aback at the amount of detail in the forgery. Paired with what happened earlier, she’s not sure why she’s surprised at what CyberLife has access to or how far their reach goes.

The mechanic gives the android a wary look. “Didn’t realize the cops have employed androids again.”

“It’s a... special assignment,” Sam mutters, echoing exactly what she told the reporter, thumbs in her pockets.

“Yeah? Ain’t seen shit on the news about it. Just them industrial ones.”

She doesn’t need this headache. “You requested a warrant, sir. We’ve provided.”

He shrugs and wipes his hands on a towel before stuffing one corner of the material into his back pocket. “Yeah, I see your badge. I just don’t feel comfortable letting one of these things into my garage.”

“Our visit will be brief,” RK insists.

The owner’s lips curl in distaste. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I don’t want you in my shop.”

Sam steps between them when she senses the conversation about to take a bad turn. Her patience is already on a knife’s edge. “I’m just here to do my job, sir. I understand your hesitation but this android is assigned to help me with investigations. With that said, we can either go in right now and take a quick look around, or I can come back later with a bigger team and make this more of an issue than it is. Your choice.”

His eyes narrow dangerously, face souring as if he bit on a lemon. “You threatening me, honey?”

“No, sir.” Sam smiles, serene. “You’d know if I was.”  

The owner sizes her up. Glares at her. She doesn’t back down, used to staring down male bravado.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath, deflating after a tense moment. “Fine. Go in. Just don’t touch anything.”

“We’ll be in and out.” Sam steps around him. RK’s already in mission mode and several paces ahead of her and the mechanic.

The garage is unremarkable. Capable of servicing four cars, one hydraulic lift already in use, keeping a vehicle raised to eye-level. Stacks of tires and rims lay to her left and oil stains litter the concrete floor.  

“So. Do any of these people happen to have a criminal record?” She asks, keeping her voice low enough so only RK hears her, stepping around a plastic creeper seat.

“Minor offenses and fines,” he says, scanning the tools hung on the wall before them, entirely focused. “Among of which is property damage.”

She’s familiar with the double meaning. “Damage towards androids, I can only assume.”

“Yes.”

She’s all too aware of the leering eyes directed their way. The three men have moved outside to lean against the hood of a car, watching the two of them shuffle about with the same sort of laser-focused attention a mugger has while stalking their victim.

“Lovely bunch,” she mumbles, crossing her arms defensively, wisps of understanding starting to flow through her head. “I think I might already know, but what the hell was the deviant doing here?”

RK’s attention flickers to the men whispering to each other. “The memory of this place was fragmented by the time I retrieved it.”

“Fragmented?”

“Yes.” He begins another slow pace along the garage wall. “The AC700 initiated a full system wipe when I began the probe, but android memories are a web of audio and video files. They are interlinked and built upon each other to provide context.” He inclines his head, eyes narrowing at a box of rusty wrenches. “Deleting, editing, or moving any file creates instability and corruption in the entire construct.”

“Is that how your memory got corrupted?”

RK comes to a dead halt. She didn’t mean anything by the question — posed it as an offhand remark more than anything — but when RK stands there stiff, looking like he just got struck by lightning, she starts thinking she may have hit closer to home than she intended.

“Has your memory been wiped before?” she asks, tilting her head at him. His LED goes blaring red for the second time that day. Given the nature of a memory wipe, though, she wonders if he’d even remember it.

Quieter this time, eyes narrowing in suspicion, she rephrases the question. “Are system resets part of CyberLife protocol?”

“Only in cases of deviancy,” he answers, staring intensely at the space in front of him, eyes dull and distracted.  

She wonders what sort of thoughts are racing through his head. “I thought deactivation is the company’s answer to deviancy.”

“It is.”

And as she leans back to give him space, she realizes that somehow within the ten paces they’ve taken since she came to stand by him, he’s positioned himself between her and the group of men by the garage doors, blocking her from their sight.

Something about the action makes her shift uncomfortably. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the gesture, but she’d given no order.

“You almost done, officer?” the owner calls, grabbing their attention and gesturing at his wrist. “I’d like to finish up and close shop soon.”

Her gaze lingers on RK a second longer before she refocuses on the job at hand. “Almost,” she calls back. “Where’s this door lead to?”

“That one? Back entrance.”

“Mind if we take a look?” At his impatient go-ahead gesture, Sam moves to it. There’s a slight breeze as she swings it open, ruffling her hair back. The area outside is a parking space for employees — five to eight spaces, give or take — but again, nothing unusual jumps out at her. Everything looks normal.

RK joins her a moment later, LED indicator a solid blue. “This appears to be another dead end,” he says, a hint frustrated. She’s not sure if it’s at the lack of evidence or at their previous discussion.

Sam sighs and turns around, ready to head back, but pauses when her eyes land on a garbage bin knocked over behind him. A mess of greasy rags and metal bits sticking out from a black plastic bag.

At first glance, it’s insignificant. Hell, even on second glance it looks like any other pile of trash, but a gut feeling makes her shuffles over to it almost unwittingly. She kneels by the bag, nose scrunching as the full scent of rusted iron and rotting food hits her.

Carefully, she pinches the top of the plastic and gives the entire thing a shake. Rags and rotting remains of food topple out. She gives another shake.

A scratched-up, dismembered android hand falls out. She lets go of the bag — and two more mechanical fingers roll out not a second after.  

“So,” she starts casually, twisting around just enough to look at RK. “If I happened to ask about William Rowe’s employment history, what would you say?”

RK’s gaze is intense, focused solely on the fingers. His LED blips before his eyes ping to her. “I’d tell you he worked here before he went missing.”

Sam gives a small, sardonic smile, turning back to the old bits of plastic. “Somehow, I was afraid you’d say that.”  

 

. . .

 

She doesn’t head straight home. It’s been a long time since she’s been to the park by the Brooklyn Bridge and given the excuse, she decides to indulge.

Downtown Manhattan is just across the bay, skyscrapers twinkling as they cut into the sky. She doesn’t often work out at this part of the city whatwith usually being assigned to the same sector, but they’ve spent the entire day in Brooklyn and the view is too good to pass up.

Sam leans forward on the boardwalk railing, resting her weight on it. She briefly freezes when she remembers her last experience with railings, but the metal under her arms is sturdy and thick with no chance of snapping.  

Relaxing, she rolls one of her ankles behind her, feet sore from the amount of walking she’s done today. It’s impossible to see any stars with the sheer amount of light pollution the city generates, but every now and then she’ll spot a one, shining bright enough to cut through.

RK stands posted by her right shoulder as usual, arms crossed behind his back.

“You don’t need to scan every single person that walks by us, you know,” Sam mumbles, somehow knowing what he’s doing without even looking. “Someone might get fed up and punch you for staring.”

He continues as he is. She sighs and hunches forward, leaning her chin on her arms.

“Manhattan seems smaller from here,” she says idly, taking in the sight. “And there’s always something about seeing city lights from a distance. People often compare it to star gazing, but… honestly, I don’t see it. Nothing magical about a concrete jungle.”

RK continues to remain silent, clearly having nothing to say about the subject.

It’s fine. Not like she expected him to wax poetic anyway.

Sam stares off into the bay. The water is inky black, calm, lapping at the sharp rocks below her. Every now and then she’ll feel a slight sprinkle of sea water blown in her face as the wind picks up.

The Brooklyn Bridge is dark and imposing to her right, a monumental construct of steel, with car lights occasionally filtering through the cable beams.

Statistics of suicide jumps spring to her mind when she spots pedestrians shuffle about on the overhead walkway. She wonders how many jumpers die from impact. How many die from drowning. It takes some effort to drag her eyes away from the bridge and she frowns at the morbid thoughts rolling unbidden through her head.

“So now what?” She mumbles, grasping for another topic to focus on. “All three locations today have been more or less a dead end.”

“Now we wait for reports to come in.”

She feels like she’s been assigned a guard dog when his attention zeroes in on another person passing by them. “I thought _you’re_ the one who sends reports in.”

“CyberLife has multiple agents who watch for signs of deviancy, and although I’m one of them, my purpose is more in line with an enforcer.”

“You mean executioner.”

“When necessary,” he says, even-toned. “In the meantime, I’ve agreed to assist you in your own casework.” He inclines his head at her. “Have you considered where to begin your search for the last two missing people?”

Sam gives him an exasperated look over her shoulder. “Do you ever think about anything besides work?”

A pause. “When necessary."

Sam’s lips twitch, curling up. Clearly whoever programmed him had a penchant for bone-dry sarcasm. “No. I was going to worry about that tomorrow, and I figure there's no point in trying to single out everyone who's ever been accused of property damage against androids. Since I assume that's who the serial killer and its accomplice are targeting.”

As a police officer she can never condone murder and as an individual she doesn't quite approve of hot-headed revenge, but...

Well, reciprocity is a concept she's fully familiar with. Calculated, proportional response is something she agrees with. But she stumbles when she tries to consider its justification from the perspective of an android dishing it out. 

Silence settles between them as the conversation dies off and RK goes back to scanning everyone who passes by. Somehow, this silence feels more natural; she doesn’t feel the need to fill the space with idle talk, content to simply let it be.

She’s not sure what to make of this entire... thing. She expected more gun-to-head, heavy handed persuasion on CyberLife’s behalf. Somehow, despite the entire home invasion yesterday and tense start in the morning, things aren’t nearly as antagonistic as she expected them to be.

She’s still not entirely comfortable around RK900 — she’d be dumb to let her guard down completely — but as long as the two of them focus on business, she finds he’s not entirely disagreeable. Much more quiet and intense than anyone she’s worked with and also clearly has a penchant for passive-aggressive behavior, but…

“I’m sorry for shooting you,” she says, eyes glazed over and unfocused. The lingering guilt she feels over the matter dissolves like smoke in the wind the moment the words leave her lips.

When he remains quiet, she hazards a side glance and finds him watching her. Being far enough from the nearest streetlight, she once again spots the subtle, mechanical light behind his eyes.

She idly notes that it's not nearly as chilling as before.  

“Your apology is unnecessary,” RK eventually says, finally turning around to face the city with her. “CyberLife will overlook all damages done.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I’m your property for as long as you cooperate. You may do as you please.“

“ _What?_ No. That’s not how this is going to work.”

“As long as I am unhindered in accomplishing my tasks, all else is trivial. I am a machine,” he states, a hint of steel entering his voice. “You’d be wise to treat me as one.”

She glares out at the dark expanse of water, index finger picking at the skin of her thumb. “I don’t give a fuck what you are. If we’re working together — hell, _living_ together, since Grant’s an asshole — there needs to be a baseline of understanding. You need to know I’m not going to shoot you whenever I lose my temper, and _I_ need to know that you won’t...”

Won’t what? Ignore her for the nth time?

He reads her like a open book. “You’re still uncomfortable over my disregard for your orders.”

“Do you blame me?” she mutters darkly under her breath, shifting her weight to the other foot and glaring at a ferry crossing the water. “I don’t exactly have a good track record with androids. Fuck, I got stabbed by one yesterday.”

He says nothing to that.

“Speaking of which,” she goes on, straightening out and reaching up to rub at her arm, trying to ease the lingering soreness. “I had a knife in my shoulder and you practically ignored me. What gives? Don’t CyberLife’s morality blueprints still apply to you?”

“They do. In the event of priority conflicts I calculate your chances of survival. Any percentage over seventy allows me to focus on my primary task while lower values undergo further calculations.” He tilts his head, attention focused solely on her. “If you wish to raise that value, I can send a request to CyberLife.”

“You can’t change those settings yourself?”

“Not without approval.”

Her frown deepens. Something about being unable to change the parameters of your own behavior doesn’t sit right with her. Paired with the lingering thought that he’s undergone a memory wipe sometime in the past — probably without his knowledge — sparks a brief wisp of resentment in her.

 _He’s an android_ , she reminds herself. _He was built for this. Stop getting worked up over nothing._

Then she realizes she’s swung back to using male pronouns. The entire day. By now she’s pretty much resigned to the habit, figuring there’s no point forcing her brain to return to ‘it’. The android has a way of reminding her exactly what it is regardless, practically shoving its state of being into her face.

“Should I submit a request?” RK asks, hands locked behind his back.

“No. Seventy is fine,” she says, a hint distracted. “Just…this,” she gestures between them, “What you’re doing right now, keeping me informed. Being upfront about your programming. Keep doing that.”

He makes a small, noncommittal noise. “Have I not been doing so?”

“You know what I mean, smartass.”

His lips curl up and she notices that his expression lacks the sternness of a minute ago. It’s less… controlled. More open, to the point where she can actually see the emotions in his tone reflected on his face. She wonders if he’s noticed.

“Justifying my decision-making process will lower my efficiency.”

“Good thing I’m not asking you to justify your thoughts, then. I’m only asking to be kept on the same page.” She rubs the back of her neck and continues, “This isn’t an order. More of a request, but I work best when I have someone to soundboard off of. And since you’re constantly going off about efficiency and whatnot, I figure you’d consider it.”

She can feel his stare focused on the side of her face and wonders what his program is reading in her body language. Wonders if this olive branch — if her presenting equal footing — is a good idea. She’s under no illusion as to what the dynamic between the two of them really is. Even though _he’s_ been assigned to _her_ , she knows both of them are just tools to Cyberlife at the end of the day.

That said, she also knows its better to foster respect rather than resentment. And they’re stuck together for the foreseeable future. So, best to take the high road.

“Very well,” RK eventually agrees, LED flickering briefly. “I will... seek to engage you further.”

“Okay. Thank you,” she says, and means it. She pushes away from the boardwalk railing. Turns to face him fully, appeased with the truce they've reached. Her eyes linger on the cuff around his bicep, drawn to the light. “Also. Are you permitted to remove that?”

Both his eyebrows go up at that and a hint of surprise flashes across his face. “That is against the law.”

She shoves her thumbs in her pockets and starts a slow pace back to the nearby train station, shoes scuffing lightly against the pavement. “And you’re, what, suddenly concerned about following it? If the city is already crawling with androids, I figure one more in disguise wouldn’t hurt. And we’d have an easier time getting around without you getting glared at everywhere we go.”

He considers her as they walk, shoulder-to-shoulder, before slowly raising a hand to his bicep.

“Not here,” she hisses, snapping out to grab his arm. She gives a pointed look at the couple sitting on a bench several paces ahead of them. “Jesus, when a cop tells you to break the law, you _still_ don’t do it under their nose.”

RK lowers his hand when she lets go. As they pass under a streetlight, she catches his eyes glittering. “My apologies, detective.”

She huffs. “For a state-of-the-art android, you can sure be dumb sometimes.”

“One of my features is to mimic the humans around me,” he intones, keeping pace with her. “It allows for smoother integration.”

Sam snickers and tries to curb the smile threatening to show. “Well, I don’t suggest mimicking me. It’s likely to get you in trouble.”

Another subtle, one-sided smirk pulls on his lips. “Noted.” And somewhere in the back of her head where she’ll never say the thought out loud, she finds the look good on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, much love @ my betas. Thanks for putting up with my hand-wringing over plot.  
> And thank you to everyone who has left kudos, bookmarked, and subbed to this fic. Sorry for the long wait between chapters. 
> 
> Music I listened to while writing this that I'd like to share: [one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bs_7AJMRkwk) / [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5aAXmRPIGg) / [three](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4AhdTGmAGfM) / [ four](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L8_az2RtqCs) . 
> 
> Also, if anyone wants to chat, find me over on [tumblr.](http://vaniccio.tumblr.com/)


	5. a house divided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You seem at a loss for words, detective.” 
> 
> Sam exhales slowly through her nose. “Do I? Because it seems like every time I think things can’t get crazier I’m somehow proven wrong.” 
> 
> “Don’t take it personally,” he says as she lowers herself into the leather office chair at the opposite end of the table. “Proving people wrong is something of a personal motto.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deus Ex says hello.

**JUNE 7, 2040  
** **12:05 PM**

The moment she presses the enter key on her terminal, the screen flickers, pixels scattering in every direction before snapping back in place. Sam’s fingers hover over the keyboard and she stares warily at her computer. Had she blinked, she would have missed the glitch.

 _This is getting ridiculous,_ she thinks with a tired scowl, leaning back in her chair, both elbows on the arm rests. Not even her workspace is safe from prying eyes.

The steady hum of conversation in the station takes a brief lull as she closes her eyes to rub at her temples. Off to her left a phone’s ringing off the hook and somewhere behind her, she hears the scuffle of papers and the sound of a stapler. If she _really_ concentrates, she can hear faint laughter coming out of the lounge room.

When her eyes crack open, her attention rests solely on her phone — framed in its usual baby blue case — placed to the side of her desk among the scattered papers and stacked manilla folders.

She’d opened the mysterious brown package earlier in the morning. Spent the next minute staring holes at the contents tucked nearly inside — namely, her phone, looking exactly as it did when it was stolen. She spent the two minutes after _that_ asking RK to remain within her apartment for the day, claiming she needed to visit the station.

She tries not to think too hard about what he could be doing in her absence.

There was a half dozen missed calls from Jones by the time she powered the phone back up. She sent him a message to reassure him that she’s alive and in one piece, but kept the conversation brief.

“Hey, Sam!”

She glances over her shoulder just in time to see a friendly grin sent her way. “Alex,” Sam greets, spinning her chair just enough to face her coworker. She’s been a good friend whenever their paths crossed, but being assigned to different teams meant they rarely ran into each other. And Sam rarely kept up with her outside of work. “What’s up?”

"Just stopping by," Alex hums, running a hand through her damp hair and casually leaning her hip against Sam's desk. Paired with the crisp, new uniform she’s now sporting, Sam figures she just got out of the locker room.  “I haven’t seen you come in the past few days. Thought maybe you also got sick.”

“No, I’ve been fine. A bit… busy,” Sam hedges, “but fine. Is there a bug going around again?”

“Yep. Brayson and Hills caught it earlier in the week. And half of the SWAT team is coughing out a lung downstairs, too.”

“And of course you only know this ‘cause you do inventory on the armory,” says Sam, giving the other woman a dry look.

Alex’s lips curl up in a sly grin. “Why,” she purrs, “Are you accusing me of something, Officer Hale?”

“You? Never.”

Alex snickers and shifts her weight back, crossing her arms. “Maybe it’s a good thing you haven’t been about, actually. Chief’s been up all our asses recently. He’d probably suspend you to save himself the headache.”

“Isn't he always pushing us, though?”

“He’s been... well, exceptionally irritable lately.” She directs a pointed look at the glass cubicle further in the room. When Sam glances over, she finds Byers on the phone, brows pinched in frustration and talking with his hands as usual. “Rumor has it he got into a yelling match with the commissioner yesterday. And by the looks of it, seems like someone else is getting an earful.”

Again, Sam can’t help but think that his behavior is out of the norm. He never lost his patience and snapping at the _commissioner_ of all people is unheard of.

“But speaking of the rumor mill around here...” Alex nudges Sam’s leg with her foot to regain her attention. “Where’s that handsome android you got assigned? It’s been the hot topic during break.”

 _Probably staring at a wall in my living room._ “At CyberLife,” Sam lies easily, rubbing at some old scratch on her desk. “And please tell me you weren’t checking him out while everyone else was busy reaching for their gun.”

“Oh, please. You were also looking. And don’t even think about lying," Alex adds on with a knowing look the moment Sam opens her mouth. “You're about as subtle with your interest as I am.”

“He’s… okay,” Sam mumbles while also wondering why she's even indulging the conversation. “But he’s an android.”

“So? That just means he’s good with hands.”

Sam gives her an exasperated look. “Alex.”

“And I read that he’s one of the more advanced models, right? Can you imagine what sort of features CyberLife gave him?”

“Alex. He’s a _police_ android _._ ”

“And _that_ just means he pays attention to detail. Actually,” she continues thoughtfully, tapping her chin, “Maybe you should transfer your assignment to me. At least  _I'll_ be able to appreciate the way he uses his—"

 _“_ —Do you mind if I use your computer?” Sam smoothly interrupts, shutting down that conversation before it happens. “Mine’s glitching out.”

Alex pouts at the interruption, but heaves a dramatic sigh. “That’s another reason why I sorely miss our androids, you know. They kept all the tech around here up and working.”

“You just miss having one file papers for you.”

“Hey, Pete used to go through ten in the time it took me to go through _one._ He was good at it.”

Sam snatches her phone off the desk and pockets it when Alex gestures to follow her. “You named a PC200?”

Alex shrugs as they side step around a group of empty desks. “Sure, why not? He seemed to respond well to it. And honestly,” her voice dips to a conspiratory whisper, “I swear he got my stuff done quicker whenever I called him by name. I think he liked me." She sighs. "I miss him.”

Sam wonders what kind of reaction RK would have if she suggested a name. She’s been mentally referring to him by the two letters of his model as a nickname, but the longer she mulls it over in her head, the more she’s not sure how he’d react. Would he even want a name?

“Anyway, here you go.” Alex gestures at the terminal. “One hopefully working computer, up and running. All yours.”

“Thanks.” Sam steps around her and opts to stand behind the chair as she boots up a program. She quickly types up the number from memory. The window flickers through thousands of profiles per second before finding a match.

“Says this number belongs to a Chloe Danvers,” Alex reads, arching an eyebrow and peering at the search results over Sam’s shoulder. “Over at the Bancroft Group? I think that’s a few blocks from here.”

Sam‘s eyes narrow at the screen as she scrolls further down the profile. She finds an image of a young woman. Brown doe eyes, brown hair styled in a curly bob, smiling pleasantly at the camera — mousy features, wholly unremarkable. Definitely not the man who bumped her at Times Square.

What the hell would a management assistant be helping her for?

She chews on her bottom lip, brows pinched together. She’s had instances of people using proxy numbers to hide themselves or lead investigators on wild goose chases. Something about this feels off, though. It’s too obvious of a trail.

Alex leans into Sam’s line of sight with the question obvious in her eyes. “Wanna tell me why you’ve got this woman’s number?”

Sam scans the profile one last time before straightening out and stepping away from the desk. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Thanks, Alex.”

“No problem,” she says with a shrug. “By the way, a few of us are heading out this weekend like we usually do. You wanna tag along?”

Sam’s lips twist into a slight smile. She figures she already knows their haunt of choice. “As appealing as a drink sounds, I’ll have to pass.”

“Stubborn as ever,” Alex sighs. “Just remember to come up for air every now and then, alright? There _is_ a world outside of work.”

“I know. I’ll see you around. And, hey.” Sam points at a small, blue bottle sitting at the corner of Alex’s desk. “Use that hand sanitizer. It kills most of the stuff that floats around the station.”

 

. . .

 

Bancroft’s headquarters in lower Manhattan is a mere five blocks from the NYPD. Sam settles for a casual pace, taking her time. She can’t shake the feeling like she’s following a very obvious trail of breadcrumbs and strolling headfirst into a trap.

From memory and exposure to the daily news, she has enough common knowledge about the company to know that The Bancroft Group is in the Fortune 500 list like CyberLife. Yet another giant in the tech industry, Bancroft is known for their research into prosthetics and biotechnology. She’s seen them in the news more often over the past two years. Ever since the android scare, the human augmentation applications of technology in comparison to autonomous robots has only gotten more appealing.

And naturally, the private sector picked up the public’s change in taste and capitalized.

She exhales and pulls her hair back in a ponytail while waiting for the crosswalk light to change, standing arm’s length from a group of men in expensive-looking suits. They’re a common sight at this part of the city, what with being surrounded by banks and investment corporations and expensive high-rise hotels.

She misses the sound of her phone going off over the honking of cars to her left, but feels it vibrate in her back pocket a minute later when she’s walked halfway to her destination. She pulls it out once she’s safely on the opposing sidewalk. Three close calls with death is enough for the week.  

 **RK900-91 1:45 PM  
** **Your bird is adamant about leaving its cage. If it continues it will hurt itself. Should I release it?**

Sam stares blankly at the text message. She’d given RK her number before leaving, but she hadn’t expected him to actually reach out to her. Especially on something unrelated to business.

 _He gets antsy without attention,_ she types back, standing to the side under a cafe’s awning and getting a whiff of coffee. _Especially when he sees someone in the room. Let him fly around the apartment for a few minutes._

She continues on her path when her phone remains silent, trying to keep to the shade of skyscrapers and out of the heat as much as possible.

Another text returns a few minutes later.  

 **RK900-91 1:50 PM  
** **It’s trying to… convince me to open the bottom drawer under its cage.**

There’s a brief pause before another message pings.

**I assume you taught it its vocabulary.**

The mental image of Connor throwing a fit, wings flaring behind him and calling RK some choice swear words has her biting her cheek to keep from grinning. She can practically see the standoff happening in her living room.

_He knows I hide the treats there. Give him two of the blue ones and he’ll change his tune._

Her phone goes silent after the short exchange, so she assumes RK managed to appease the bird. After a few more minutes of walking, she comes to a halt in front of a towering, needle-like skyscraper.  _Bancroft Group_ is emblazoned in bold, white letters on the arch above her. Sam hesitates at the entrance, unwilling to pass through the spotless glass doors just yet. A gust of cold air hits her face as an employee steps out of the air conditioned building, and that’s when she musters up enough confidence to stride in.

The lobby is pristine, exuding wealth just like CyberLife’s building at Staten Island. Sam steps tentatively across the dark marble-veined floors, then makes a bee line for the directory board on the wall to her left. The company’s CEO is listed at the top: Liam Bancroft. Names of upper executives are listed below him, paired with office locations and phone numbers. Sam continues to look over the list, trying to find a specific name. 

“Hello, miss?”

Sam blinks and turns, ready to say that she’s just browsing — then freezes. The woman she’s come to see stands right before her, clad in a simple white blouse and a black pencil skirt with an ID clipped to her waist. “Welcome to the Bancroft building. My name is Chloe,” she introduces with a pleasant smile, arms clasped before her.

Sam’s immediately on guard. She hasn’t even been in the building two minutes. “...Sam, though I get the feeling you already know who I am.”

“I do,” Chloe confirms with a nod. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come to be perfectly honest, but I’m glad that you have. You couldn’t have chosen a more perfect day, too.  Please, follow me. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Sam doesn’t move, still watching the woman with a wary eye.

Chloe sees her hesitation and offers her another reassuring, disarming smile. “I understand your caution, but the fact that you’re here suggests you came to speak. Given the subject, I’m afraid the lobby is not the best place for it.” She directs a pointed look at the people striding through the rotating glass door at the entrance, then at the group lounging in the plush red arm chairs in the lobby.

Being identified and approached almost immediately after entering? Sketchy. Being led to meet a mysterious someone who-knows-where in the building? Not high on Sam’s to-do list. _I’d like you to meet someone_ is right up there with _I’ve been expecting you._

Chloe, though? Sam pegs her as friendly enough, and she came here looking for answers to begin with. Getting cold feet now would be counterproductive. “Alright,” Sam eventually agrees. “After you.”

Idly, she wonders how low she’s set the bar when she considers not being stabbed on sight a good thing.

 

. . . 

 

She doesn’t often find herself inside skyscrapers. Makes a point to avoid them, really.

The NYPD building is fifteen floors tall and even then she tries to keep to the first three floors. And while she held a desk job at some investment firm several years back, working in a small cubicle on the 25th floor, it was a very short lived experience.

On a concrete level, Sam knows that high-rise buildings are built to shift and adapt to wind force. She knows, logically, that the effort which goes into designing these buildings ensures that it’s all safe and stable. Even so, being up on the 70th floor of the Bancroft needle tower has her hands shaking and heart pounding. It's as though a rock lodges itself in her throat every time she feels the building sway.

“Are you alright?” Chloe asks as they walk down a stretching hallway of boardrooms, her black flats silent on the carpet. “You seem a bit green.”

“I’m fine,” Sam murmurs back, wiping her sweaty palms against her jeans and taking a shaky breath. “Just uncomfortable.”

“I assure you, you’ve nothing to fear here.”

“Funny enough that’s not what I’m worrying over.”

Chloe’s brows pinch together and Sam can see it takes the woman a second to understand. “Oh. If it makes you feel any better, it takes a while for most employees to get used to the height of the building. We keep medicine on hand for those who get motion sickness. Would you like me to fetch you some?”

Sam shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. I don’t plan to stay long.”

“Of course.” Chloe gives her another small smile before coming to a halt by the door at the end of the hall. “One moment, please.” The conversation within comes to an abrupt halt as she ducks inside.

Sam leans against the nearby wall while she waits. Then she kicks off and takes to pacing a hole in the carpet, still trying her best not to notice the sway of the building. After a certain point, she realizes how pointless her fretting is. On the off chance the building decided to collapse, it’s not like she’d be able to do anything about it.

When the door opens again, a middle-aged man steps out, fixing the cuffs of his suit. His blond hair is slicked back with gel and he holds his head high, radiating confidence.

Sam straightens when his attention lands on her. She feels like a bug under a microscope, being subject to his scrutiny. Her eyes narrow when his head tilts back ever so slightly, as though he’s found something he doesn’t like. As though he’d appraised her worth and found her lacking.

Catching her glare, he immediately molds his expression into a pleasant mask. “Excuse me, I seem to have lost my manners. Liam Bancroft,” he introduces with a firm handshake and Sam tries not to react when she feels the cold bite of a prosthetic hand. “I apologize for staring, though I can’t help but be intrigued in Elijah’s latest gamble. The man has a habit of taking wild risks with rather interesting results.”

Who?

“I seem to be involved in a lot of people’s plans lately,” Sam returns with the same polite half-smile. “And I’m consistently the last to know about it. It’s growing rather grating.”

Liam gives a low chuckle. “Such is the corporate life, I’m afraid.” He dips his head towards her. “Please, excuse me.”

Once she enters the boardroom, it takes her a second to recognize who’s sitting at the other end of the long table. He looks different from the old Times Magazine photo-ops, yet after years of seeing his face plastered all over billboards and featured on every news station, she knows exactly who he is.

Her eyebrows fly into her hairline. “Are you—?” Sam starts, then cuts off as a thought strikes through her like lightning. She spins on her heel, her attention flying to Chloe who’s gently closing the door behind her. “Are _you_ —?”

Chloe merely smiles serenely at her, brown eyes twinkling with amusement. The short, curly brown bob is vastly different from the platinum blonde Sam remembers. The eyes aren’t the same iconic blue either, and while the bone structure of her face is slightly off from the heart-shape Sam remembers from advertisements, the longer she stares, the more she pieces together the resemblance.

And when Elijah Kamski leans back in his chair, hands steepled together and smirking like he’s enjoying her confusion, Sam can’t help but solidify the connection.

“You seem at a loss for words, detective.”

Sam exhales slowly through her nose. “Do I? Because it seems like every time I think things can’t get crazier I’m somehow proven wrong.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Kamski says as she lowers herself into the leather office chair at the opposite end of the table. “Proving people wrong is something of a personal motto.”

“Is dragging them into your games part of it too?”

He chuckles, evidently not put off by her barbed sarcasm. “Surely you’re not surprised by CyberLife’s actions given what you’ve uncovered.”

“You mean the shady shit they’re doing to hide the skeletons in their closet?” Sam corrects, tapping an irritated pattern on the desk. “No. I just don’t know why _I’ve_ been dragged into it.”

“I think you do.” And before she can open her mouth with another scalding retort, he continues with, “No doubt you’ve reached a number of conclusions by now. Coincidence is not something the company abides by.”

Did the word ‘privacy’ mean nothing to these people? “So _you_ being here isn’t coincidence either, is it?” When his enigmatic smile widens an inch, she sighs in irritation. “Alright, then. Chloe said you wanted to speak with me. Here I am.”

Kamski hums and idly thumbs the clip of the pen in his hands. Chloe, meanwhile, has taken to quietly organizing the manilla folders in the middle of the desk, shuffling papers and piling them together. A graphic design of some spider-looking tech catches Sam’s eye before it’s placed into a folder.

She sits patiently, still tapping away at the desk and filling in the blank space. She’s tired of silence being used as a weapon against her, so she locks her jaw, maintains eye contact, and continues to wait. Kamski merely watches her as the silence stretches between them, leaning back in his chair as though he’s got all the time in the world. The infuriating, sly smile adorning his face reminds her far too much of Grant.

She immediately dislikes him on principle.

“I take it you’re aware of what will likely happen once Cyberlife deems you as no longer useful,” he finally says.

She relaxes marginally, satisfied she doesn't have to talk first. “I’ve got about three guesses and none of them are particularly appealing.”

“Indeed not. Now if we’ve agreed to skip past the pleasantries, then I’m sure you won’t be surprised I know the company’s plans for you. And if you want me to skip past the sales pitch, then what I want from you is simple.” He pulls out a small device from his jacket pocket and gently places it on the desk in front of him. “Each time the RK900 unit assigned to you receives a report and pulls you into the city, activate this device.”

The item before him is a dull grey color and practically a relic given the modern technology now available. Her police training kicks in immediately, telling her that pagers are one of the most secure forms of communication. Chances are whoever’s on the other side of the line would be the _only_ one receiving a message from that device.

Her attention slides back to Kamski, who has leaned back in his office chair, once again observing her with the same calculating intensity she’s seen on RK.

“And then what?" she asks.

"And then do your job as you're expected to."

Sam gives him an ‘are you kidding’ look before her eyes ping back to the pager. “If you’re offering to get me out, then I’ve gotta say that this sounds counterproductive.”

He inclines his head, agreeing. “I'm afraid your only way out of this is to play it forward. In return, I'll offer you safety. Protection.” Like Byers, he talks with his hands, accenting his speech. “A way out of the war you’ve inadvertently stepped in. Assuming you  _do_ want out, of course.”

She doesn't bite the bait. “So your end goal in this is… what, hiding deviants? Giving them jobs at big corporations?” She juts her chin in Chloe’s direction. “Does Bancroft even know about her?”

Kamski sighs and rises from his seat before shuffling to stand by the window. This high up, most of the city is spread before them: nothing but concrete, steel and glass as far as the eye can see. Sunlight glints off the windows of a nearby building, shining right onto the man’s neatly tailored suit.

At his extended silence, her jaw drops in shock. “Okay, before I even...“ Sam shuts her mouth. Places her palms flat against the cool, smooth table and tries to get her thoughts in order. “Putting the most obvious questions aside, why all this cloak and dagger nonsense? Don’t you _own_ CyberLife?”

“In name, perhaps.”

“You’re not the most prominent shareholder?”

He clicks his tongue as though he’s disappointed, sliding his hands in his pockets. “You’re viewing this situation through legal matters — as I should expect, given your profession… but try to think a bit bigger, Detective Hale. Step outside of your established understanding of the world. See it from the perspective of a company who enjoys close ties to the government and consider the means available to them in accordance to their wealth.”

To her credit, she keeps her face blank. She knows exactly what he's getting at, having thought along similar lines before, but this is exactly why she couldn’t stand working in the private sector. Backroom deals, agreements reached after-hours, money passing under the table — everything done with smiles hiding knives. At least in law enforcement, where she stands is where she sits. There’s no need to juggle conflicting loyalties and navigate favors. Sure, there’s interdepartmental rivalry and occasionally people butt heads, but they’re all on the same team at the end of the day.

Sam leans back against her chair. “What if I say no?”

“Then you say no.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Kamski repeats, shrugging, not at all bothered. “You're free to do as you please.”

She snorts. “You’ll forgive me for my doubts.” She cuts a glance at Chloe. “And if I arrested her?”

Kamski gives her a droll look over his shoulder, amused that she’d even voice the question. “Then I must ask: do you really want to take on two corporations?”

It’s a poor attempt at a bluff and they both know it, but his answer still rubs her the wrong way. ”Does anyone actually follow the fucking law around here?”

“Do you, detective?” Chloe innocently chimes in, having stood silent the entire time, folders tucked neatly under her arm. “Surely you’ve encountered instances in which you’ve ignored your orders. Or have you never bent the law for a friend?”

As Sam’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline, Kamski chuckles at the exchange. Then he glances at the watch on his wrist and like a switch being flipped, his amusement fades in an instant. “With all that being said, I’m afraid this is a one time offer. My patience has grown thin over the past few years. I will not contact you again if you refuse, and rest assured that there are no consequences attached if you do so.”

“I don’t get time to think over this?”

He gestures at the pager. “If you’re unsure, then by all means take it with you. Make your decision when you inevitably find yourself in a poor situation again.”

She’s too busy wrapping her head around the bigger picture at hand to determine whether that’s a threat, so she simply stands and strides over to take the device from the table. She pockets it after a moment's hesitation, then can’t help but stare at Chloe waiting patiently by the door, a tad unnerved by the fact that she _once again_ was unable to differentiate between an android and a human.

Another trend developing under her nose that she’s not happy about.

“Don’t deviants scare you?” Sam asks quietly, eyes darting back to Kamski standing in front of her.

He tilts his head towards her. “No more than humans do.”

“Not even after Markus?”

“No.”

“How?” She can’t help but ask, even as his mouth thins into a flat line. “He nearly—“

“After only a week of being subject to the company’s whims, do you really believe what broadcasted from Detroit is the truth?” At her stunned silence, Kamski gives her another enigmatic smile, though this one seems more weary than the others. “There is more going on than you’re allowed to see, Miss Hale. But do try to keep your eyes open.”

It’s as bland of a dismissal as she’s going to get and when Chloe moves to open the door for her, Sam takes it as her obvious clue to leave.

“Do I truly scare you?” Chloe asks once they’ve taken several steps from the boardroom, setting a slow pace back to the elevators.

Sam shrugs and crosses her arms across her chest. She’s not sure of how to address the android, assuming she’s got the full weight of Kamski and the Bancroft Group backing her. _That_ connection is another headache all together, but given that she’s been treated politely thus far, Sam adopts the principle of reciprocity. “I’m scared of what you can do.”

“But it’s no more than what anyone else can do,” returns Chloe, voice quiet but firm. “Is my mere existence then a crime?”

Sam bites the inside of her cheek as Wade’s face flashes through her mind. In the months she’d seen him, he gave no indication of being violent. He acted like any other law-abiding citizen. That said, she also got stabbed by a deviant android just the other day and its accomplice is still on the loose in the city doing who knows what.

“You were comfortable speaking to me as another human when you first walked in,” Chloe continues, undeterred by Sam’s silence. “What’s the harm in living alongside us if you can’t tell the difference?”  

“The harm is that you don’t experience life the way we do,” Sam mutters, a line of tension tight in her shoulders. “And therefore you don’t appreciate and fear death like we do. It’s temporary for some of you, but it’s permanent for all of us.”

“There is no difference in how we die.”

“There is when you have the chance to come back. The mere existence of the option matters.”

When Chloe swipes her ID and calls the elevator to their floor, Sam rapidly changes the subject, not interested in sparking a philosophical argument with the android. “Were you the one who stole my phone a few days ago?”

“Oh, no. A display like that would require deft hands. I’m afraid I’m quite the butterfingers.”

Could an android even havepoor hand-eye coordination? “But it was _your_ number that led me here.”

“A convenient coincidence,” says Chloe with a mischievous smile, accepting the topic change with ease. She raises a finger to her lips as if sharing a secret. “But it wasn’t me you spoke to, detective. Nor did I bring your phone back to you.”

A flash of silver snags Sam’s attention, and the last thing she sees before the doors close is a familiar, upside-down tear shape adorning a dainty necklace hanging from the android’s neck.

 

. . .

 

A week ago, the most exciting thing she’d do in the line of duty is try to conduct interviews with people whose native language wasn’t English. She’s never worked in the field of solving homicides, though she’s stumbled on her fair share of gruesome crime scenes. She’s also cooperated with investigators assigned to narcotics cases (and her path crosses with Alex when that happens) but for the most part, Sam’s detective career has revolved around investigating and locating missing people. A lot of it is repetitive and oftentimes depressing — she feels a weight settle on her shoulders each time a body crops up rather than a person — but rarely, if ever, is her life in danger. 

Nowadays, it feels like there’s a threat around every corner.

Sam’s not sure what to expect when she returns home. The sight of RK sitting on her couch with her bird perched on his shoulder, though, isn’t quite at the top of the list.  

“Detective,” RK greets the moment she steps inside, his attention settling on her.

“...Hi?" Sam returns, hesitant. "Has he been sleeping on your shoulder this entire time?”

“Not until an hour ago.” RK turns his head a fraction, careful not to jostle the cockatiel. “He refused to return to its cage.”

“That’s because he’s spoiled,” says Sam, setting her keys on the cabinet in the entryway and chucking her shoes off. “Something you’ve enabled, I see.”

RK remains motionless as she strides over to lean on the back of the couch across from him. Unlike Chloe — whose movements came across as organic — his posture is formal and mechanical. Yet despite all that, the sight of her pet perched on his shoulder offsets the aura of severity RK exudes. He doesn’t look nearly as imposing with a bright yellow bird cuddling against his cheek.

“Was your visit to the station productive?” RK prompts when she remains quiet.

Sam blinks, refocusing. “Sort of," she mumbles, breaking eye contact and rubbing the back of her neck. "I came across something I didn’t expect.”

“Did you find information for your case?”

Sam shakes her head but is mindful of his ability to read her reactions. Kamski’s pager feels like lead in her jean pocket. “No. But I was thinking about the common links you listed before. Remember that nightclub you mentioned?”

“Yes. We won’t be able to investigate there until the weekend, however, given the establishment’s hours of operation.”

"Right. So we’ve got a day to kill. I figured we could check it out after we go to JFK on Saturday... assuming we still have to go?”

He gives a slight nod. "We do.”

“Alright, then.” She steps around the couch and plops down on it, then reaches for the remote on the glass coffee table. She flips through some channels before settling on a news station at low volume. “How about you? Any reports from CyberLife?”

“None.”

“Anything on the serial killer accomplice?”

“No, but Agent Russeto has diverted more resources to locating that particular android.”

“Great," Sam deadpans. "Maybe Grant will get to it _before_ someone else dies.”

The KNC anchor continues to prattle off something about the latest political news and election forecast, but all of it goes directly over Sam’s head. She’s painfully aware of the awkward air descending on the two of them — though, well, it’s likely _she’s_ the only one feeling awkward. A truce is one thing and although talking about work is a neutral, safe topic, navigating cohabitation is something she's not sure how to do. 

Looking for a distraction, she lets her mind stray. She thinks of the tear-shaped symbol Chloe wore and its implications. The most obvious conclusion pops out — that Chloe is the serial killer’s accomplice — but Sam's reluctant to think of her in that light. Despite the steel in the android's tone near the end of her visit, Chloe didn't strike her as the vengeful or violent type.

That said, Sam can't think of many other reasons the symbol would be on both her jewelry and at the locations they'd visited yesterday. She frowns as she mulls it over, trying to make sense of it in her head. “Hey, remember how you said the storage warehouse changed ownership? Can you look up who owns it right now?"

From the corner of her eye, she can see RK tilt his head at her. “Is there a particular reason you’re asking?”

“Sort of. Remember that soundboard thing I mentioned? Indulge me.”

“Very well.” There's a brief pause from him as he completes the search. "The property is currently under the ownership of Tycho Sons.”

“When did they buy it?”

“They purchased the land three months ago.”

“Huh.” She chews on her bottom lip, eyes glazed over in thought. “Are they sponsored by anyone? Given loans, funds, that sort of deal?” At RK’s silence, she refocuses and finds him staring at her from the other side of the coffee table. She raises an eyebrow in question. “You _can_ find that information, right?”

“Yes, though I once again wonder why you are seeking it.” There’s another pause from him before he answers, “According to their finance records they are listed as a subsidiary of the Bancroft Group.”

For a moment, she feels as though she can see a bigger picture form in her mind’s eye — one where Bancroft purchased the property to hide the deviant android’s activities. But _surely_ the company wouldn’t willingly shelter a serial killer. And Kamski, whatever his connections to Bancroft are, _surely_ wouldn’t extend his so-called appreciation for ‘free will’ to include murder.

Then again, he didn’t strike her as particularly concerned over Markus and his violence in Detroit. But he _also_ alluded to the implication that what broadcasted wasn’t the truth.

 _God, what a fucking mess_ , Sam thinks, heaving a frustrated sigh at all the bits and pieces of the puzzle in her head.

RK shifts in place just as a particularly loud commercial plays on the TV. She glances his way just in time to see Connor waking up, chirping softly and ruffling his wings.

Sam smiles when he spots her with a happy tweet and flies directly onto her lap. She gently pats his head with one finger, relishing the softness of his feathers. “Hey, buddy. You got spoiled with attention today, didn’t you?” As if on cue, he tweets once more, then he flies back to land on RK’s knee, keen on receiving more attention.

RK, meanwhile, stares down at the bird as though he’s not quite sure what to do with it.

“He wants to be pet,” Sam tells him, amused by his hesitation. “For someone who apparently spent the better half of the day with him, I figured you’d know what to do.”

“Prior to your arrival, he was content to remain perched on my shoulder.”

“And now he wants to be pet. He won’t bite if he knows you.”

RK gives her a pointed look across the coffee table. “The scars on your hands indicate otherwise.”

“It was different when he was being trained. Now he’s not—” She cuts off and stares at him, then gives a huff of exasperation. “I’m never gonna get over the degree of detail you notice, am I?”

“It’s part of my purpose,” RK says with a slight turn in his lips, though he carefully extends a finger to pet the bird. “If I did not, I would not be doing my job well.”

“You do it better than Grant, at least.”

“That is not a high standard to reach.”

Sam nearly chokes on her spit. RK seems almost offended at her statement — as though the comparison to Grant is distasteful — and somehow, the way his nose scrunches up only adds to the comedic effect.

“You’re really something else,” Sam breathes, shaking her head. “Seriously. I need to meet whoever programmed you.”

RK, meanwhile, continues to dote on her pet, raising another hand when it hops onto his index finger. She spares the two of them one last look before turning back to the TV. Her attention lands on it just in time to see a portrait of Elijah Kamski being broadcast with a ‘Breaking News’ marquee right underneath. The scene then cuts back to the news anchor, who has become far more animated in their reporting than five minutes ago.

Sam turns up the volume just in time to catch the last bit before the scene changes again. “— _twelve years of living in obscurity, CyberLife founder Elijah Kamski has just announced his return to the company as CEO. A shocking development to the board of directors and investors alike, this decision has sparked numerous questions.”_

Seriously? This, after she’d spoken to him not two hours ago?

“ _It ma_ _y be that he intends to oversee the reintegration process in New York,_ ” the anchor continues. “ _We have live footage from Staten Island right now where he is accepting questions alongside the sudden press release._ ”

When the scene cuts back to Kamski speaking at a podium, CyberLife’s atrium as a backdrop behind him — where she’d walked not days ago — a stone settles uncomfortably in her gut. She feels like the charming smirk on his face is being directed at people _beyond_ the crowd gathering before him. To, perhaps, an audience huddling in a meeting room, wringing their hands over the new development.

“So,” Sam starts, deliberately casual, fingers tapping a pattern on her thigh. “Speaking of Grant. Do you operate on a chain of command?”

“Yes,” says RK, already watching her when she turns back to him. “All androids are built to follow one, though their assignments differ.”

“Whose authority do you regard as the highest?”

“Agent Russeto.”

She expected that answer. “And executives like Kamski?”

“If they aren’t assigned to the RK900 program, then they don’t hold priority slots.”

“What about government officials?” Sam prods, watching as he raises his hand to let Connor hop onto his shoulder. The cockatiel chirps, happy with the attention. “Like, say the president?”

“My answer remains the same.”

Well, shit. “Who’s under Grant, then?”

RK’s gaze slides cooly to her. “You.”

“Me?” Sam repeats incredulously. “Why the hell am I placed so high up?”

“I’ve been assigned to you. Your orders hold weight.”

“Unless they contradict with Grant's. Or your mission."

"Correct." 

Sam gestures to what’s playing out on the TV. “So this doesn’t change anything?”

“No,” RK confirms, calm as ever. “It doesn’t. It may, however, cause tension within the board of directors given Elijah Kamski's past history with them. But it shouldn't have any effect on our job.”

She’s not sure what to think. Whatever the man planned to do by returning to the CEO’s chair, Sam figures all of it is about to be an uphill battle for him. On the other hand, though, seeing a glimpse into the company’s inner workings was vaguely reassuring. Part of her breathes a sigh of relief upon realizing that CyberLife isn’t quite the monolithic entity it projects itself to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tfw it has only been 4 days in the story. Pacing, who? _Slow burn, who?_  
>  Anyway. Thanks to Sage, Limey, Ren and Chavez for reading over this. I appreciate y'all. And thanks to everyone who has left kudos/bookmarked/subscribed. 
> 
> In other news, this is still the only story under the 'CyberLife Ending' tag. Come suffer in the shadowlands with me, friends. Post-canon bad ending still has plenty of potential.  
> (Find me over on [tumblr.](http://vaniccio.tumblr.com))


	6. might is right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We bypassed the notion of ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ What right do we have to do that?”
> 
> “What rights do we have?” RK returns, and the nonchalance with which he says it sends her stomach churning once more. “We are machines. Tools. We are not subject to the same laws.”

**JUNE 9, 2040  
** **10:05 AM**

An airplane speeds down the runway in the open field, nearly deafening as it takes off. She’s hundreds of meters away sheltered in a massive private hangar, but the noise level is absurd even from this distance. The air traffic at the JFK airport is always pushed to the limit with planes landing and leaving as quickly as safety guidelines allow.

CyberLife’s shipment is substantial. Five hundred androids, lined up in neat rows and staring dead ahead as they wait for inspection. It’s a wonder how the company managed to fit them all in a single transport carrier.

Sam feels tendrils of unease slither down her spine as she observes them. She knows they’re built for construction and heavy labor, but the way they’re positioned paints them as a small army — one that apparently recognizes their manufacturer as the prominent authority rather than any official serving in the executive branch.

“You look uncomfortable,” Grant notes with an amused lilt, standing by her shoulder.  “Is something wrong?”

She ignores him, her eyes instead fixed solely on RK’s back. His monochrome blazer is in sharp contrast to the dull, green uniforms of the androids lined up before him, and being several inches shorter, he’s easy to single out. The purpose in his stride further cements Sam’s unease. 

He walks with the confidence and scrutiny of a drill sergeant inspecting his soldiers.

Grant clicks his tongue at her dour silence and rocks back on his feet. “You should smile for the cameras. This is bound to end up on the evening news tonight.” He nods his head in the direction of the news drone buzzing by the reporters. “It’s a rather big occasion, after all.”

God, she wants to punch him in his smirking mouth. She realizes that he probably gets a kick out of riling her up, yet she can’t help but react every time he presses her buttons. Something about him just constantly rubs her the wrong way.

His security team and a handful of other CyberLife employees are present to oversee the process. The agents stand posted at various points throughout the hangar, clinging to the shadows of the building and casting a watchful eye over the area. (A surreptitious glance confirms she’s the only public law enforcement agent present. All others are the company’s private security force. She shifts uncomfortably at the realization.)

The other employees — the engineers and programmers, dressed in civilian wear rather than kevlar vests — are by the mouth of the hangar, playing up the charade to a group of reporters and likely buttering up the businessmen hovering at the entrance of the building.

As she watches them, Sam realizes she has no idea who is actually buying this shipment.

“The media’s like a pair of children,” Grant mulls, also staring in the direction of the reporters. “Always chasing the newest toy and forgetting about it the next day. Though I suppose they are easy to direct.” He sighs. “Even so, I share your dislike for them.”

Sam feels like every commuter who’s ever had to endure unwanted conversation. Maybe she should’ve brought giant headphones to stick in her head. RK's no longer in her line of sight either, having turned down another row, so she's out of excuses.

“Don’t you have a job to do, agent?” She eventually grumbles, throwing him a dark glare from under her lashes when he refuses to budge.

“I’m merely trying to improve our working relationship," he returns.

“You can’t improve what isn’t there.”

“No?” He hums. “You were certainly receptive towards me when we met.”

She snorts. “Before you broke into my home, you mean?”

Grant smiles brightly as the news drone flies in their direction and the subtle shift in his expression reminds her exactly why she fell for his tricks. “I made you a nice dinner though, didn’t I?”

“That doesn’t even—” Her mouth clicks shut when she sees his grin turn sly. “Do you get off on annoying people?”

“Just you.”

 _Stop indulging him_ , she tells herself and bites down on her tongue to keep from responding. Grant chuckles as she crosses her arms, but then his amusement at her predicament vanishes like smoke the moment a sleek, black jeep rolls up at the entrance of the hangar.

Sam remains where she is when he strides off without a word, and breathes a sigh of relief when the news drone also follows his movement and flies back to the main group.

In a way, it’s beautiful to see everyone thrown for a loop when Kamski steps out of the vehicle, dressed in a grey tailored suit. The CyberLife employees freeze up and exchange uncertain looks. The businessmen are best at maintaining their decorum, taking Kamski’s sudden appearance in stride. The reporters, meanwhile, flock to him like moths to a flame.

Sam’s eyes ping to Grant and she finds him hesitating at the edge of the group with a pinched expression. A slow smirk pulls at her lips. Seeing him try and salvage whatever wrench Kamski threw into the company’s plans today feels like karma to her — at least until she catches Kamski’s eye. The charming smile and nod of the head sent her way is no doubt a polite acknowledgement, but it also makes the rest of the reporters follow his line of sight and stare right at her.

_Fuck._

She turns on her heel and ducks into the rows of androids. They’re sectioned off in blocks by their models — TR700s, TW600s, WB500s, each designation emblazoned on their green coveralls with a bright white serial number underneath.

Goosebumps prick along her arms as she carefully cuts through their ranks. They all stand motionless, indifferent to her presence and while none of them so much as blink as she passes by, she feels like their eyes trail after her the moment she looks away. The sensation of being watched sends her skin crawling; it's the same uncomfortable feeling she had at the abandoned factory in Brooklyn. 

“RK?” Sam calls, loud enough to let her voice carry through the aisles, yet quiet enough not to draw too much attention to herself.

There’s no response from either side of her. She sighs and rubs her arms, then freezes when slight movement out of the corner of her eye snags her attention. She hesitates, then slowly walks towards the end of the line and stops before a TW600.

"Hello?" She murmurs, observing the android. 

No response comes. 

The feeling of dread swells in her gut the longer she stands still. The blonde TW600’s form is imposing, nearly towering over her and clearly designed for heavy labor. Physically, it could overpower her within seconds — hell, it would overpower anyone who didn’t bodybuild for a living. As for mentally, she’s not sure what sort of programming this model is equipped with. If RK’s capabilities are anything to go by, though, it likely processes significantly quicker than the average human.

Sam shoots a wary glance back down the aisle she came from. There’s dozens more of the same model surrounding her. Idly, she thinks back to the surveillance accusations which had been hurled at CyberLife two years ago. Back then, she’d wondered if the news sensationalized it. Now, though, she’s fairly certain some of it rang true.

Tendrils of unease continue to trickle along her spine, setting her hair on end.

This really is a private army.  

“Detective.”

Sam’s breath catches in her throat as she jolts, muscles tensing in anticipation. She whirls around and finds RK standing a foot behind her. His eyes flicker across her form, no doubt picking up signs of her discomfort. “You called for me.”

“Yeah,” she breathes out and tries to calm her racing heart. “I did. Do you mind if I walk with you?”

“You needn’t accompany me during the inspection.”

“I know. But given the other choices of company...” She lets the statement hang.

RK’s gaze lingers on her a second longer before his attention cuts in the direction of the CyberLife employees, no doubt knowing exactly where they are even without a direct view to them. Then he glances back at her with sharp eyes, and after a beat, takes a step to the side as if to let her pass. Sam takes the opportunity immediately, coming to stand by his shoulder.

Humans are better company, she’d once said to him. Now here she is, eating her words. 

“I’m nearly done,” RK tells her, starting a pace she can easily keep up with. “Only the TR700s remain.” And despite his matter-of-fact tone, it feels as though he’s telling her they’ll be able to go soon.  

She finds herself relaxing. “As long as Grant keeps to that side of the hangar and we keep to this one, take all the time you need.”

“Your aversion to him seems to grow with each meeting.”

“And water is wet," Sam mumbles.  

She swears she hears him sigh.

 

. . . 

 

For the most part, Sam’s content to keep quiet while RK works. Well, while he stares and occasionally extends a hand to sync with another android. Honestly, she’s not sure how he’s checking them for signs of deviancy, but his LED blips enough that she figures he’s doing _something._

As they walk down the rows, she keeps to RK’s side like glue. The lifeless androids standing on either side of them still unnerves the shit out of her, but his presence by her shoulder makes it more bearable.

"What does the dash at the end of your serial number mean?" Sam asks as they turn down the last aisle, her boots scuffing against the cement floor. They’re deep within the hangar now, far enough that she no longer hears any of the other humans in the building. On occasion, she’ll still hear the news drone fly overhead. "None of these other androids have one."

"It means this is the ninety-first body I have used," he answers without looking at her, instead extending a hand to the android in front of him. The TR700 mechanically offers its arm without complaint. "The addition to my serial number indicates that my programming has been transferred multiple times."

Sam slows to a stop beside him, brows raised in disbelief. "So you've died ninety times? Jesus."

"No," he corrects. "I’ve been rebooted ninety times.” He unlocks his arm from the TR700 and resumes his pace.

Sam follows him after a beat, vividly reminded of the conversation she had with Chloe. This is exactly what she'd been getting at. Why fear death when you can get backed up and installed somewhere else like it's nothing?

She scowls at the glowing triangle on his back, feeling a wisp of irritation spark along her veins. "So your body is just… hardware. Materials to be used and replaced. Can you be installed anywhere, then?” She waves her hand. “Into any of these?"

"No. If I were transferred to a TR700, it will likely overheat and shut down. The processor they’re built with doesn’t support my software."

"But if you didn't use any of your advanced features?"

 _"_ Then any of these would serve as an adequate placeholder," RK answers patiently. Sam gets the feeling he's indulging her at this point. She's just a distraction for him right now, but her endless questions don’t seem to bother him.

“Does anything get lost in the transfer?"

"It depends if the upload process is interrupted. Memory files are at the highest risk of fragmenting."

"Maybe that's how yours got corrupted, then.”

He comes to an abrupt stop. She arches an eyebrow when he merely stares at her. “What? You think it might’ve been something else?”

His head tilts a fraction. "You called me RK."

She blinks and it takes her a moment to process the non sequitur. "Oh. Yeah. I figured a nickname wouldn't hurt." When his LED bleeds to yellow and his eyes glaze over, she hesitantly tacks on, "Unless you want me to go back to RK900...?"

"No," he murmurs, staring past her. "RK is acceptable." At his extended silence, Sam shoots a wary glance over her shoulder to see if anyone’s standing behind her. Nothing is out of place; the androids stand as motionless as ever, backs straight and staring dead ahead, their eyes glazed over.

“I’m receiving a report of another deviant,” RK explains when she turns around, amused at her confusion. “It’s nearby.”

"Oh." At least she didn’t do something embarrassing this time around like wave her hand in his face. “Can we just leave, then?"

"No. I need to report to the programmers first.”

Sam sighs and steels herself for the inevitable barrage of questions from the reporters lingering around the hangar. She barely takes a step when RK grasps her arm. “There is another exit to the rear of the hangar,” he says at her questioning look. “Wait for me there."  

Sam’s mouth drops open as he steps past her without another word. “...Thanks,” she mumbles once the shock subsides, despite the fact that he’s already gone.

Like a teenager sneaking out at night, she does her best to tiptoe towards the back door RK mentioned. It's easier than expected. The reporters are oblivious to her presence, the CyberLife programmers and engineers seem engrossed in talking with the businessmen, and Grant’s attention is solely fixed on RK. The rest of his team — if they even look at her — seem indifferent to what she does.

She frowns and pauses by the door when she’s unable to locate Kamski. Surely he wouldn’t have been able to slip away without causing a commotion. The man must be more slippery than Grant, though, because no matter how much she scans the area, she can’t spot him.

Rather than dwell on what his objective could possibly be here, she shakes her head and slides out the back door. Whatever schemes he had planned towards his own company is none of her business. 

 

. . .

 

The CyberLife car is infinitely cleaner than any taxi she’s ever been in. The leather seats feel more comfortable than her couch at home, and hell, she even spots a damn mini-fridge tucked away in the back. And if this is what the company spent on a _car_ , she can only imagine what employee homes look like. Her awe at the amenities is abruptly cut off, however, when she sees RK shrug off his jacket.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks as he neatly folds it on the seat beside him. His arm cuff follows shortly after.

“Taking your suggestion from before,” he says, raising a hand to his temple. “Blending in will allow us to move unhindered.” He hooks his thumb under the LED component and tears it out with a sharp jerk. The synthetic skin on his temple flickers and covers the location a mere second later. Sparing one last look at the small circle, he tucks it in his pocket.

She stares at him. "My suggestion was one thing, but are you actually allowed to do that?" 

He gives a curt nod. "Yes. If it assists in accomplishing my mission, it's permitted." 

“Well, then. You look... human.” She pauses and glances at his high collar. Her nose scrunches up with mild distaste. “Although you look like a really stuck-up, pretentious businessman I wouldn’t want to speak to.”

RK gives her a droll look, then one of his hands reaches up to unbutton the top of his shirt. And, god, she fixates on the movement more than she should, staring at the pale skin of his neck.  

“Considering your reaction,” he mulls, “I take it this is more acceptable.”

Sam snaps out of it the moment she catches the familiar glint in his eye. She huffs, slinks back against her seat, and purposefully ignores him by staring out the window. Then she sees him roll up his sleeves to his elbows, mimicking the business casual look Grant often wore.

At this point, Sam can practically hear Alex’s teasing in her head, followed by a suggestive eyebrow waggle.

“You appear rather flushed,” RK notes with a nonchalance that’s entirely too casual to be real. 

“It’s eighty-five degrees out,” says Sam, stubbornly keeping her eyes fixed on the buildings they drive past. “Not all of us are capable of shrugging off the weather.”

“I’m aware.” A calculated pause. “Would you like me to turn up the air conditioner?” Then, in the same casual tone, “Or perhaps re-button my shirt?”

Sam nearly dies in her seat. She’s thankful Alex is nowhere in sight because the woman would have a field day watching her get called out like this.  

“Just tell me what the report said,” Sam mumbles, sinking further into the car seat out of mortification. “And if you tease me one more time, I swear to god I’m shooting you again.”

RK's lips twitch. “As you wish.”

Somehow, she feels like she can also hear Grant laughing at her. She wonders what the chances are that  _he's_ the one who programmed the android sitting in front of her. 

 

. . .

 

Sam slowly raises an eyebrow. "A rec center? Talk about hiding in plain sight. Then again, I guess a serial killer would be good at that."

RK closes the car door behind her as they step out, before moving to his usual spot by her shoulder. "It's unlikely that this is the accomplice android."

Sam blinks. "What?"

“This is not the android you’re thinking of.”

She frowns. "Why didn’t you say that earlier, then?”

"Would it have made a difference?"

"No, but…” When RK’s eyes narrow at her hesitation, she clams up. “Nevermind. Come on.” She steps past him and through the double-doors into the building.

RK walks beside her as silent as a wraith, his eyes flickering between people, devoting a second to scanning each of them before moving on.  After the main lobby, he passes ahead of her and takes the lead.

"I take it you already know what they look like," she says quietly, stepping around a group of teenagers lingering around a water fountain in the hallway.

"Yes,” RK confirms, walking further into the building. “I'll recognize them on sight."

They pass by a fitness room, an indoor-basketball court, and another lounge area. RK pauses at the entrance of each of them, carefully scanning the area through the glass pane on the door before moving on without a second glance. Sam trails after him, watching him ghost through the building with an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Grant told her that RK was designed to hunt deviants. The focus with which he moves only now drives the point home. Every action has its purpose, all dedicated to completing the singular goal set in front of him. 

Part of her marvels at his ability to navigate through the building without drawing any attention to himself. Nobody spares them a second glance — not the parents picking up their kids from gymnastics, not the teenagers milling about the vending machine, not the janitor mopping up the floor by the restrooms. It’s as though RK doesn’t exist.

It’s uncomfortable, realizing just how much she and everyone else rely on LED indicators to point out the existence of androids.

“If you wish to avoid a repeat experience of your last encounter with a deviant,” RK murmurs without looking at her, “Inform me if you wish to split up.”

It takes her a moment to realize he’s picking up on her discomfort and reaching the wrong conclusion. “Okay.” She doesn’t bother correcting him. “I will.”

They pass down another two hallways in silence. Then he stops before the double doors of the indoor swimming pool and fixates on the group inside. Sam wordlessly slides up to stand by his shoulder to look in, then promptly feels her stomach twist into a tight knot.

Her hand instinctively snaps out to grip RK's wrist when he grabs the metal bar to push the door open.

His head turns a fraction to stare down at her. "Let go, detective."

Sam’s grip only tightens around his wrist. "This is way too fucking public,” she hisses. “You can't seriously be thinking of just waltzing in."

"I had no plans of deactivating them in front of an audience. On the contrary, they're likely to flee when they see me." Then his other hand comes to grip her wrist, his fingers locking firmly around it with ease. It's enough to make her aware he could snap her bones in the blink of an eye.

She wonders if he'd actually do it.

Shrieks of children's laughter echo from inside the gymnasium, alongside occasional bouts of splashing and the squeaking of pool equipment. RK makes no move to hurt her, though she does feel his grip tighten as he continues to stare her down.

"Sam," RK murmurs, voice quiet and sharp like a razor. "Let go. I won't repeat myself."

Something inside of her deflates, but rather than dwell on the hot flash of disappointment, she purses her lips and sets her shoulders. "No audience," she repeats firmly, staring him dead in the eye. " _No one_ sees. Got it?"

RK gives a curt nod, and when he pries her hand from his, she doesn't resist.

The nausea doesn't subside.

 

. . .

 

Sam paces by the vending machine at the end of the hall, chewing on her bottom lip and mulling over the situation laid out before her. She’d left Kamski’s pager hidden in her bedside cabinet, still on the fence over his offer. She figures she knows what will happen if she uses it. She also doesn’t know if she _wants_ to.

For one: RK’s living with her. If she uses it, she’s picking a side and it’s firmly in opposition to him. And two: her job is to protect the city from threats. Deviants are threats. From a law enforcement standpoint, she knows what she needs to do.

Right now, however, she doesn't feel like an officer of the law. She feels like a gun hired to protect corporate interests.

The image of the smiling brown-haired lifeguard in the pool surrounded by kids is practically seared into her mind. She might not know what the android got up to when it wasn't hosting swimming lessons for children, but her gut tells her it can’t be anything heinous.

Who the hell did she protect by doing _this_?

"Fuck," she mutters under her breath. Air whooshes out of her lungs as she exhales sharply and runs both hands down her face. She feels like she’s seconds away from ruining the floor with her breakfast. "Damn it."

Without a second thought, she pulls out her phone.

_+1 (212) 733 4385.  
       Help._

Her heart feels like it’s about to burst from her chest while she waits — and waits, and waits, occasionally shooting a wary glance in the direction RK left in.

After a minute of nothing, Sam wonders what the fuck she’s doing. This reckless, impulsive behavior could seriously land her in hot water if she’s caught. 

When no response comes, Sam takes a deep breath. Her chest rises with the movement, then slowly deflates as she exhales and tries to center herself. The sheer stupidity of what she just did douses her like a bucket of cold water the moment she can think straight. Whoever stole her phone — if Chloe is to be believed when she said it wasn't her — practically told Sam that it’s not a secure form of communication. Yet here she is, reaching out like an idiot. 

That said, it’s as far as she’s going to go. Despite the nausea crawling up her throat about how wrong this all feels, she’s not about to step between RK and his mission. He’d given her ample warning against standing in his way, and despite their truce, something tells her he wouldn’t be as lenient with repeating himself a third time.

She turns on her heel and heads for the exit. He’d be able to track her down once he was done. Of that, she had no doubt.

 

. . .

 

She finds a bench one block over, situated under the shade of a tree planted into the sidewalk. She slumps down on it, then rests both elbows on her knees and leans forward to hold her head.

When no sirens ring in her ears and no news vans fly down the street in front of her, she knows CyberLife managed to clean up without raising any suspicion. And when someone settles in the spot right next to her nearly ten minutes later, she knows who it is without raising her head.

"You left without informing me," comes the familiar voice. "Again," he adds tersely.

She sighs and raises her head to look at him. "I figured you could handle it."

"That is besides the point," says RK, his brows pinched together and eyes slightly narrowed as he glares down at her. “You told me you would.”

She’s too busy searching his face for any hint of regret to offer a proper apology. “You've got absolutely no doubts about what you’re ordered to do, do you?”

“No. Neither should you.”

Sam reaches up to rub the space between her brows. He follows the movement with his eyes and says, “Your guilt over this is misplaced, detective.”

“Is it?” She wonders. “I did nothing while you went and..." She trails off, chewing on her bottom lip. Sometimes, she finds herself envious of the black and white worldview that androids probably have. That the android sitting beside her no doubt has. How easy it must be to compartmentalize.

RK leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, mimicking her pose. "I am fully capable of disabling you should the necessity arise. You wouldn't be able to stop me."

"Wouldn't I?" She mumbles, staring out at the city street, fixated on a scratched-up stop sign without actually seeing it. "I shot you a few days ago and you made no move to stop me."

"There was no need to. In an actual engagement, however, it's highly unlikely you'd be able to hit me."

"Because you can, what, calculate bullet trajectories?" She snorts, then rolls her eyes in exasperation when his silence confirms her off-handed comment. "Seriously? You know that doesn't matter at point blank, right?"

RK arches an eyebrow at her. "You assume I would let you draw your weapon."

"And _you_ assume you'd see me coming," she shoots back. "I wouldn't be dumb enough to get within ten feet of you in an actual fight. Besides, I—" She cuts off, then narrows her eyes at him. "You changed the subject."

He doesn't even blink at the accusation. "Poorly, it seems, as you've noticed."

Sam stares at him. RK stares back. And somehow, the sheer absurdity of the situation puts a small, wry smile on her lips. RK’s expression thaws a degree in response, and a line of tension she didn’t even notice was there leaves his shoulders.

When the conversation lulls, she sighs and leans back against the wooden bench. Clean air is something of pipe dream in the city, but they're far enough from a main street that she doesn't fill her lungs full of car exhaust whenever she takes a deep breath. 

"Have you read the file on what happened at Times Square?” Sam asks after a moment, idly brushing some stray strands of hair behind her ear. “The full story, not the watered down version the media got."

"Yes," RK confirms without hesitation, as though accessing restricted police files is completely normal. "Which is why I don’t understand your reaction to this. You were the first responder. You removed a threat to human life. How does this situation differ?"

“Because we bypassed the notion of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ here. What right do we have to do that?”

“What rights do we have?” RK returns, and the nonchalance with which he says it sends her stomach churning once more. “We are machines. Tools. We are not subject to the same laws.”

If one of Russia’s androids had said that to her, it might’ve gone down easier. Maybe one of China’s. Their androids had mechanical endoskeletons, mechanical appearances — they looked nothing like the humans who designed them. Hell, they even _sounded_ robotic, as neither country bothered with giving them human-like voices.

But hearing those words come from something that looks so painfully like her draws an almost knee-jerk, gut reaction, and leaves a sour taste in the back of her mouth.

“And being treated like a tool doesn’t bother you?” Sam asks quietly, turning her head to observe him.

“No,” murmurs RK, staring dead ahead. “I know what I am. To think otherwise is to deviate.”

The knot in her stomach twists further, but something in the way he phrased his answer snags her attention. His acknowledgement of the consequences of deviancy comes as no surprise given his purpose. His awareness to the _choice_ , however, sharpens her focus until all she can see is him sitting beside her.  

There’s a difference between obeying an order out of duty and obeying an order out of fear. 

“Would you follow any order Grant gave you, then? Even if you were against it?”

“I’m not programmed to disagree with those who assign me tasks.”

She doesn't even blink at the rehearsed answer. “So you’d just... do it. No hesitation.”

“Correct.” He tilts his head to nod at her. “You fall under the same category.”

One some days, the obedience of the station’s police androids came as a relief. No back talk or questions — they’d simply do as she asked. On other days, their obedience made her uncomfortable. Although she knew what they were, giving them orders felt vastly different than simply pushing a button on a coffee machine and waiting for it to finish.

Sam’s nails dig into her palms as she feels frustration mount over her conflicting feelings. She’d been fine seeing him as a machine just this morning. Hell, she’d gotten irritated over it. And she’d complained about his disobedience not two days ago.

Why was she getting so worked up over him reaffirming the matter?

“I let that deviant go once,” she says suddenly, scowling and feeling the urge to prove a point. To whom, she’s not sure. “The one that started the mess downtown. You won’t find it written down anywhere, but when I first encountered it, it was with a missing girl I was assigned to find. They ran off together to get away from a bad situation with the family.”

RK’s expression immediately darkens, blue eyes sharp and half-lidded with judgment. “You let them go.” It's not stated as a question. 

“After seeing what they were running from? Yeah. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.” Sam leans forward again, resting her elbows on her knees. Her left foot continues tapping against the pavement, spurred by restless energy. “But hindsight’s a bitch, isn’t it? You know what the PL600 ended up doing. A classic hostage situation, right in the middle of Times Square. And all that’s on my head.”

“It is," he intones. "The situation could have been prevented had you chosen differently.”  

The wound is a dull ache at this point, scabbed over with the amount of times she’s reprimanded herself. Byers is the only other person who knew the full story and he was far more lenient with her than she was with herself.

“I know," says Sam, careful not to snap the words out. "Which is why in my head I know what you did here was the correct thing to do. But it doesn’t feel like it was the _right_ thing to do. Does that make sense?”

RK’s chest rises and falls as he breathes. Then he briefly scans the sidewalk around them, deems it sufficiently clear, and raises his hand. The synthetic skin flickers off to reveal smooth, white plastic underneath, with the joints of his knuckles glinting in the sunlight.

“I am not like you,” he says lowly, leaning towards her, his gaze fixed firmly on her face. “Despite our appearances, _we_ are not like _you_. Deviancy is a matter of cascading software errors, not a replication of life. I suggest you remember this difference lest your willful ignorance of it leads you into making the same mistake.”

At her stubborn silence, his expression darkens, then smooths out into a blank mask. “I believed you would be able to see past your personal feelings on the matter. It is disappointing to find that my assumption was incorrect.”

His words sting — more than she expected them to — but she moves past sharp pang and tightening of her chest with the same dogged determination in which she chases down leads. Lingering on it would accomplish nothing, and the longer they stare each other down, she realizes neither of them are going to budge on the matter.

“You know,” she murmurs, turning the words over on her tongue and leaning back onto the bench to observe him. “It’s funny. The more you disagree with me, the more I dig my heels in on this. And I don’t know if it’s because I’m actually starting to believe it or because I just want to prove you wrong.”

“Given your personality, it’s likely the latter.”

In the back of her mind, she quietly wonders at the truth in her statement. Chloe’s argument echoes insistently through her head. Kamski’s words, that deviants are no scarier than humans. Wade, this lifeguard android — they're like chinks in her armor, slowly whittling away at her belief that all deviants are inherently dangerous. 

“The deviant escaped,” says RK a moment later, shattering her moment of self-reflection. “I was unable to deactivate it.”

Sam blinks, then sits a bit straighter once the words actually register. “What?”

“The lifeguard,” he clarifies patiently. “It escaped before I could corner it.”

Her pulse spikes. “How?”

He glares at a spot in the road and clasps his hands on his knees. “It received assistance.” And rather than elaborate, he side-eyes her and continues with, “Days ago, you asked that I inform you of my decisions. If you insist on reciprocity, I would ask the same courtesy of you.”

Sam convinces herself that he’s not talking about the text she sent. “Okay. I will,” she says without breaking eye contact. She swallows, then gestures in the direction of the rec center down the road. “Are we going after them, then?”

RK shakes his head. “No. I don’t know where it went.”

Whoever it was hadn’t ignored her, then. But to show up so quickly and slip the deviant right under RK’s nose? Who the hell did Kamski have working for him?

Sam takes a deep breath and schools her expression to remain neutral. It’s foolish to think RK didn’t pick up on her odd behavior — _especially_ following this conversation — but if he wasn’t going to comment on it, she wouldn’t bring it up. “So we’re back to waiting for more reports, then?”

“So it seems,” RK mutters, eyes narrowed in thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: the nightclub investigation and every cliche you've ever heard of. But I'm having fun writing all of this, so. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Also. On one hand, it's fun juggling the plot and subplot threads in this fic. (There's like 4-5?) On the other hand? Yikes. It's easy to get lost in the direction. I hope the main ones are obvious, though. 
> 
> Next chapter might be a bit delayed. And here's a [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/album/1UQED6UHgdGgHD7hACdH6T) for y'all to enjoy.


	7. devil take the hindmost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam stares blankly ahead of her. In the back of her mind, she starts to wonder if CyberLife was onto something by assigning RK to her rather than anyone else in the precinct. Had Emily asked, she could’ve played off his lack of LED indicators as something necessary for an investigation.
> 
> But for this, she’s got no convenient excuse.

**JUNE 9, 2040  
** **9:30 PM**

The potent, unpleasant smell of cigarette smoke has her nose scrunching up in disgust. Even from across the street, she recognizes the stench of pot mixed in with it. The metal tracks above her screech with the passing of a subway train, sending vibrations through the support pillars of the overpass down to the ground and straight into her chest.

"We should move soon," says RK once the train passes. His eyes flicker between people in the line snaking to the club’s doors. "It's going to be hard to investigate if we wait much longer."

"We're not gonna have to stand in that line."

"Aren't we?" RK casts a glance over her. "Your badge isn’t with you."

"It's in my pocket," Sam says. "Or does this seem like a good place to flash it around?"

RK spares a sideways glance down the dirty street and surroundings. Old fast-food wrappers, scraps, and other pieces of trash skirt along the road as the wind kicks up. It's not quite as creepy as the old industrial zones, but it's still not a place anyone would want to be caught walking alone — especially at night.

"Besides," Sam continues in a mild tone, crossing her arms and shifting her weight. "I know the owner. It's not the first time someone has gone missing after visiting this place." When RK goes quiet, eyes narrowed in disapproval, she inclines her head at him. "You're wondering why we haven't shut them down."

"Yes. It seems the obvious choice." 

“It does, doesn't it?” Sam sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “Too bad that's not what we've done. As long as Marco doesn’t commit felony-level offenses, the NYPD leaves him — and places like this — alone. In return, they tell us things we otherwise would have no way of knowing. Insights into gang activity, whatever the word on the street is. That sort of shit."

"That is counterproductive in the long term," says RK. "When a known problem exists, the solution is to address it — not let it fester."

"Sure, and I'm all for doing that. But if we closed down every place like this, others would pop up somewhere else in the city. Maybe run by someone worse."

He shakes his head. "No one will be willing to repeat the offense when it is dealt with enough times."

Sam gives him a flat look.  "You're all for severe solutions, aren't you?"

"They've shown to be the most effective,” says RK, utterly unbothered by the implications of what he’s saying.

And why would he? They'd already gone over his stance on morality and orders. She sighs again and toes an empty beer can by her shoe. "For some things, maybe, but people don't respond well to force. Hit them with a stick enough times and they'll either hit back, find another path, or leave. But they'll never stop doing what you don't want them to do."

RK hums in response, evidently not keen on arguing the matter further. Sam lets it drop as well, given their last disagreement — which is still fresh in her mind — but the task at hand is enough to distract her from what happened at the rec center.

She has another job to do tonight.

"Anyway,” she says, setting her shoulders and refocusing on the neon sign across the street. “Now that we've thoroughly gotten sidetracked, how about we go over what we know about these last two missing people?"

“Those were my thoughts as well,” says RK, folding his hands behind his back.

 

. . .

 

They're let in without much of a fuss, at least after Sam asks one of the bouncers to make a call. She cuts through the crowd already inside and leads the two of them to a quiet corner, away from the speakers and flow of people. RK’s noticeably less bothered by the sheer amount of bodies inside and the overwhelming mix of perfume, hairspray, and strong cologne filling the air. Sam, meanwhile, can already feel a headache coming on from sensory overload.

It doesn't take long for the owner of the establishment to find them. "And here I thought this would be a quiet month," comes a sigh from her right. "To what do I owe this visit?"

Sam kicks off the wall and turns to face the man. The neatly cropped black hair, casual black dress shirt, and relaxed stance all give him a welcoming aura. The way his slanted dark eyes flicker at each of her movements, however, hint at his discomfort over her presence.

Marco's not the sleazy club owner some in the area expect him to be, but he's also not one to inspire confidence at first glance. She's not dumb enough to think the faint scar over his top lip came from a benign accident. 

"Just the usual," Sam returns, loud enough to be heard over the music. She nods in the direction of the second floor. "Do you mind?"

The polite smile wavers a fraction when his eyes ping at RK behind her. "Who's your friend?”

Ah. She'd wondered why he looked more skittish than usual.

“Her partner,” says RK, subjecting the man to the same impassive stare which once put her on edge.

“That so?" Marco’s gaze flickers between them. "You usually work alone,  _chica_. Or do you suddenly not trust me?”

“Would  _you_ trust you? No offense, Marco.”

"A fair point," Marco chuckles. "Come on, then. Though I hope this visit will be as short as the others, as Saturday nights tend to be my busiest."

"He's excessively nervous by my presence," RK murmurs into her ear when the man turns away. "Does he often act this way?"

"To a degree,” says Sam, keeping her eyes fixed on Marco’s back. “Not that I flaunt it, but cops walking around isn't exactly good for business... although he  _does_  seem a bit more skittish tonight. Maybe he's intimidated by you? I mean, your resting bitch face is even more impressive than mine." 

"Indeed," RK intones, keeping pace with her. "It's a wonder he was willing to speak to us at all."  

 

. . .

 

The VIP lounge Marco leads them to is sectioned off by floor-length glass windows on all sides, offering a clear view of the dance floor below. Two bouncers stand by either side of the door, arms crossed and imposing as their job requires. Marco leans in to speak directly into their ears, murmuring something beyond Sam’s ability to hear — and likely defaulting to his native tongue. She spares a glance over her shoulder to see if RK heard, and finds his eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

The two bouncers leave after the short exchange, brushing past her shoulder and striding right back down the stairs. Sam watches them go, shares a pointed look with RK, then hesitantly follows Marco inside the room. The bass thumping throughout the building fades into an atmospheric backdrop beyond the glass walls. 

Marco makes a beeline for the small, private bar counter, reaching for an expensive-looking bottle. "So, who are you looking for this time?"

“Two girls," says Sam. "They were seen visiting here before they went missing a few days later. I've got pictures of them— and we’re still on the clock," she adds when Marco sets three shot glasses on the counter. “But thanks for the offer.”

"Always so busy!” He exclaims, more amused than offended at the refusal. He tilts the bottle to fill one glass up to the rim. “One of these days you’ll visit for pleasure rather than business.” 

"Perhaps," Sam agrees easily as he knocks back the shot. "Maybe when people stop going missing."

"Well, you'll be waiting a long time for that, then." He clears his throat and accepts her phone, then steps back and settles comfortably on the black couch across from her.

Sam remains standing in the middle of the room, observing as Marco swipes through the images of the girls, his face illuminated by the glow of her phone. RK remains silent by her shoulder and from the sharp, focused look, she figures he's logging every reaction and running it against whatever program lets him analyze body language. 

“You said these two were seen around here?" Marco asks after a moment, eyes dark in the dim lighting. “Seen by whom?”

"Street surveillance drones," answers RK, his gaze fixed firmly on the man. "A handful of their acquaintances also corroborated the matter. They claim the two girls were regulars here."

Sam chews on the inside of her cheek as Marco hums and leans back against the couch, one leg slung casually over the other. RK was lying through his damn teeth, fishing for reactions.

"That so?" Marco says. "Do the acquaintances have a name?"

"Are their names relevant?"

Marco's lips twitch upwards, eyes sharpening as he seems to reevaluate RK. "I'm merely curious as to who's keeping an eye on my club." 

"Have you seen the girls or not?" Sam interrupts, breaking the staring contest between them. "We're just here to follow up on a lead," she adds to defuse. "Not to waste time." 

"To which I am grateful," Marco says with a one-sided smile. "And I see familiar faces now and then, but I don't keep track of everyone who goes through here. Neither of these girls looks familiar.”

Sam hesitates at the prolonged pause which follows, then takes the phone back from his outstretched hand. “You usually have something to tell me,” she carefully notes, peering at him. “A rumor. Some gossip.”

“Well, you _usually_  come to me with questions about people who had been here every weekend,” says Marco with a slight nod of agreement. “Can’t tell you much about people I don’t see.”

“Perhaps one of your employees has. Mind if I chat up the bartenders?”

He gestures to the floor below them with an open palm. “By all means, do so. Just don’t keep them from working. It’s a busy night, as I said.”

 

. . . 

 

She doesn’t end up talking to the bartenders.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Sam mutters under her breath, throwing a wary glance over her shoulder. The staircase back to the main floor looms behind her, dark and imposing. “It’s like the word ‘warrant’ doesn’t exist anymore. Just because you think Marco was lying doesn’t mean he’s hiding something down here.”

“I don’t think he was lying; he was. He also told those two men to hide something as we approached.”

So he did hear, then. “That still doesn’t mean—”

"You've also claimed that it's better to search places rather than speak to people."

"Yeah, but—"

“Furthermore, you've yet to order me to stop,” RK continues coolly, observing the keypad on the door before them. “Which leads me to believe you agree with this decision.”

Sam’s mouth clicks closed. Marco has always been shifty about the information he provides, and part of her figures it’s due to where the information comes from. That said, he’s  _always_ had something useful to tell her. The tight-lipped attitude earlier has her gut insisting that the man is indeed hiding something. Meanwhile, her brain's practically screaming at her that she’s an officer and has to follow the law.

And yet, here she is.

“You're a terrible influence,” Sam eventually breathes, scowling at the back of RK’s head. “I swear I never did this before. There’s a reason probable cause is the standard rather than gut feelings or hunches, you know? And—what’s the holdup?” Her voice drops to an anxious hiss. “Can’t you just hack that thing?”

“No.” His head tilts, then he raises a hand and smoothly inputs  _0415_  into the keypad. It pings green and a lock slides open on the other side. “I can, however, deduce the combination based on the fingerprints on buttons.”

“Is there anything you can’t do?” She mumbles under her breath, clinging to his shadow as he confidently strolls through the doorway. “Jesus, the more we break into places, the more I start to wonder if you were originally designed to be a master criminal or some shit.”  

Large cardboard boxes line either side of the hallway, half open and revealing bar supplies. Marco clearly hadn’t bothered with renovating here; there’s no pretty plaster paper covering the brick walls and no lush carpet to hide the faded stains on the cement floor.

“There are three employees down here,” says RK, his voice lowered as he pauses at the end of the narrow corridor. “While our chances of being seen are low, I suggest we be quick.”

Sam casts another wary look over her shoulder. The music from above echoes dully here, and while she hasn’t heard any activity around them, her shoulders are tense with the threat of being caught. “How do you know there’s not more?”

RK nods to the left at a security camera jutting out from the ceiling. “We needn’t worry about the electronic surveillance,” RK tells her with a sidewards glance, seeing her tense up like a deer in headlights. “It’s currently showing an empty loop.”

She stares blankly at him. “...Are you  _sure_ you’re not actually a criminal?”

“Yes,” RK repeats, the corner of his lips twitching up as they briefly peek in a storage room. “My intended purpose is to assist police officers. Though I can see why some of my features may lead you to believe otherwise.”

“No joke,” she murmurs, lightly closing the door behind them. Nothing but beer cases lining the shelves there. “And you know, it’s possible all that’s down here is some party drugs. Marco’s never had his fingers in the hardcore stuff like red ice, but—" She’s cut off by RK stepping back into her, pressing her against the wall and cutting off her view of the hall.

Sam freezes as a door in the adjacent corridor opens not a second later and two men step out, mere meters from them. She hears the door slam shut, then the clink of a lighter flicking open. A deep inhale follows shortly after and cigarette smoke fills the space.

Her palms press against the android's shoulder blades as the two men converse, trying to nudge him away. She grows insistent as the seconds drag on, urging RK to move, but she may as well be trying to budge a block of cement. He remains infuriatingly calm and only presses his palm against her thigh when the footsteps grow near, silently ordering her to stay still.

She briefly sees a man over RK’s shoulders before the android jolts forward, cutting off the employee's noise of surprise by swiftly punching him in the throat, then twisting and stunning the second man an elbow to the face. The employee's choked gasps are abruptly cut off as RK swings his fist again, using the momentum of his torso for added force.  

Sam's mouth drops open as both men drop boneless to the floor. The encounter ended before it even began.

“I thought you said we wouldn’t be caught,” she hisses when she recognizes the two bouncers from the VIP lounge. 

“So I did."

She gestures at the floor in a panicked manner. “This doesn’t look like—"

“They’ll be unconscious for some time,” RK returns coolly, his gaze flickering between the two men. His attention is snagged by the first and he kneels, reaching for the man’s front pocket. A soft jingle reaches Sam’s ears as he pulls out a key ring. “Check if any of these match the door they just left through.”

She readily accepts the keys from his outstretched hand. “What about these two? We can’t just leave them—”

RK wordlessly slings the first unconscious man over his shoulder and stalks off in the direction of a door labeled ‘Storage.’

Sam’s mouth clicks shut. “Okay. Great.” She exhales noisily and turns on her heel for the door in the corner, fumbling with the keys. “Can’t get caught if no one’s there to catch you, Sam,” she mutters. “Great plan, RK.”

The key ring nearly slips out of her clammy hands twice before she hears the lock slide out of place. She hurriedly pushes against the door and palms at the wall, grasping for a light switch. When the lights flicker on, her gaze immediately narrows in on two girls slumped towards the back wall, tied to their chairs and gagged. One sits passed out, her head lolled to the side and black hair obscuring her face. The brunette beside her blinks in Sam’s direction, her eyes glazed over and not quite seeing.

It's not the two girls she's trying to find, but something about the second one sparks wisps of recognition. Sam squints at her. “Are you...?” Shit, what was the reporter’s name? “Emma? Em... Emily? The intern?”

The sound of her name sparks awareness. Emily’s eyes widen and she nods furiously, straining against the zip ties locking her hands and feet.

“Are you alright?” Sam asks, removing her gag and kneeling by her feet.

“I’m…” Emily swallows tightly. “Yeah. I’m okay. But this other girl hasn’t moved since they brought us here. I think... I think she might be..."

Then RK’s kneeling beside Sam, lightly nudging her away so he can snap the zip ties. It takes Sam a second to understand why Emily’s trailed off at his appearance, squinting quizzically as though someone had just told her the sky is green and grass is blue.

“Hey," Sam says, snapping her fingers to regain Emily's attention while RK walks around her. "Can you walk? Are you injured anywhere?”

“No,” says Emily, blinking and refocusing. “I mean, yeah. I mean—” She draws in a shaky breath, rubs at the red marks on her wrists, then gives a stiff nod. “I can walk. No injuries.”

“Okay. Good. Take a second to breathe while we try to wake this one up, and then we’ll…” 

“What’s wrong?" Emily asks, frowning when Sam trails off. "Is she... Is she dead?” 

Sam's lips thin and her eyes flicker upwards to meet RK's impassive stare. And here she'd wondered why he wasn't immediately snapping the bindings as he had with Emily.

Emily's frown deepens at the abrupt silence. She reaches up to lightly shake the unconscious girl's shoulders. "Hey, wake up." When there's no response, Emily moves to brush aside the veil of black hair — and promptly recoils at the thin trail of blue trailing from the girl's nose. Snatching back her hand as though she was burned, Emily's eyes widen like a deer in headlights. “She’s—”

Logically, Sam knows the situation was unavoidable. It's not like she and RK could've just up and left with Emily without explaining why they had to leave the other girl, and claiming she was dead wouldn't have hidden the obvious trail of thirium. Sam's already got an idea of how to explain away RK's lack of LEDs — having a badge gives her all sorts of leeway — but for this, she’s got no convenient excuse. 

In some recess of her mind where she'll complain about it all later, Sam wonders if CyberLife was on to something when they assigned RK to her. She's always had a knack for finding people, but this was getting downright ridiculous. 

Sam reaches out to firmly grip Emily's arm. "Hey."

"I thought all androids were—"

" _Hey,_ " Sam stresses, leveling the girl with a hard stare. "Look at me. You didn’t see that, you understand? You didn’t see any of this.”

"But I—"

“Her stress is climbing,” RK murmurs in warning, quietly observing the two of them. “I’d recommend a different approach.”

“Emily,” Sam repeats, firmly gripping her arm and ignoring RK. “You’re interning at the KNC news agency, right? How many stories of deviant androids do you remember hitting the press in the past two years?”

Emily remains quiet for an excruciatingly long moment, her throat working as she swallows down her rising hysteria. Her gaze pings between Sam, RK, and the dead android — before eventually settling back on Sam. It’s easy to see when the understanding slowly dawns in her eyes, alongside a faint trace of accusation.

“Do you understand why I'm asking?” Sam asks, evenly keeping eye contact with her despite the brief flare of shame.

“I...” Emily’s voice is still shaky when she speaks, cracking and unsure. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Good,” Sam exhales, feeling her panic subside a degree. Her hands move up to grip the girl’s shoulders. “Now repeat—”

“But why?” Emily continues, brows furrowing as the accusation in her eyes grows. “Shouldn’t the public know, if there’s more out there? And… I mean, he’s an android, isn’t he?" She nods at RK. "Why isn’t he wearing the armband? Why—”

"It's for police work." Sam’s response is curt as she's vividly reminded of Grant’s visit to her apartment. "I can't tell you more than that." She’s in his shoes now, isn’t she? Trying to convince someone to keep quiet about what they saw. And RK, for once, is entirely unhelpful as he silently watches the exchange. Or, perhaps, content with letting Sam handle the situation in whichever way she deems best. 

“Do you have money for a cab on you?” Sam continues after a tense pause, letting go of Emily's shoulders. “Enough to get home?”

“No,” Emily says slowly, evidently unsure of how to respond to Sam’s blatant evasion. “They took everything on me.”

“Okay. RK, can you—” Sam pauses when he’s no longer within her line of sight. Straightening out, she finds him further in the room at a corner, staring down at a stack of plastic crates and pulling on a black sheet covering them. “What are you over there for?”

“Investigating,” RK says before sparing her a sideways glance. “I believe you need to see this.”

Sam’s frown deepens as she slides up to his shoulder, dimly registering Emily trailing after her. Her stomach drops at the contents of the crate. “You're… kidding me. Is that…?”

“Red ice,” RK confirms, staring down at the little packets of red piled in the box. “And rather large quantities of it.”

“Shit,” Sam breathes, taken aback by the sheer amount. She can see bits of red peeking out of four other crates around them. “This isn't something that shows up overnight. Or even in a month. But Marco’s never…” How long had he been doing this?

“I overheard something said about an operation,” Emily says softly, hugging herself. “My Spanish isn't the best, but I can remember some of what they said.” Her eyes ping to the door again. “Which... I can tell you later. Can we go, please?”

Right. Priorities.

“Can you get her out of here?” Sam asks RK. “Without being seen?”

“Yes,” he says with a slight nod. “We can return the way we came.”

“Good. Get Emily out of here and pay for her cab, alright?”

RK pauses halfway through the order. Sam merely gestures at the crates by her feet, seeing the unspoken question in the way he narrows his eyes at her. “The size of this shipment means he’s got an entire supply and demand chain, not to mention records of it. If they find Emily missing, they'll probably move all of it before we get back.”

“This is not our priority here,” RK says slowly, an undertone of reprimand in his voice. “You told me so yourself.”

“I know, but it doesn't mean I’m gonna let this slide. This amount of…” Sam exhales and gestures at the crates in frustration. “The city had its own red ice epidemic a few years back, alright? We didn’t hit Detroit levels of the drug, but it was enough to keep the department busy for months. Anything I can do to dent it before that happens again is something I can’t pass up.”

He hesitates for a fraction of second, indecision flickering behind his eyes, before his face sets into its usual impassive mask. “CyberLife will be here in twenty minutes,” he tells her quietly, then moves to grip Emily’s arm in the same manner Sam did. He tugs her towards the door, ignoring the small noise of complaint from the girl. "If you're not outside by then, I'll return for you." 

Sam takes another steadying breath and sets her shoulders. Twenty minutes is plenty of time.

 

. . .

 

Snooping around is something she’s familiar with. Hacking, though? Not quite her forte.

Sam chews on her bottom lip as her fingers fly over the keyboard on Marco’s desk. The little office hedged in the corner of the basement took some maneuvering to get to, and a few close calls which required her to squeeze into the maintenance closet — and the absurdity of the situation would’ve made her laugh if not for her heart lodged in her throat.

She remembers hearing brief segments on the news about another potential red ice epidemic given the return of commercial androids. With her current luck, it’s not surprising that she’s the one to stumble on the first traces of it. Ever since RK showed up at the station, her life’s been a whirlwind of surprises.

“Who’s the real trouble magnet, I wonder,” she murmurs under her breath, reading over a list of names and trying to make sense of what’s on the computer. Alex would make better use of all this, being on the narcotics division; Sam’s only vaguely familiar with the gangs and distributors scattered throughout the city.

It doesn’t help that half the stuff is written in Spanish. The laptop’s not connected to the internet, she’s got no flash drives or any method of transferring the data — and no damn cell service to boot. Huffing in frustration, she pulls out her phone and starts snapping photos of pages that look important as though she’s stuck in the early 2000’s.

Her pulse spikes when a loud bang echoes from the hallway outside. Taking a deep breath, she decides it’s about time to leave and quickly turns off the laptop.

A flash of silver by the corner of the desk catches her eye as soon as the device powers off. Frowning, Sam brushes aside the stack of papers to pull out the silver chain underneath. A tilted, upside-down tear shape charm stares back from the palm of her hand, identical to the necklace Chloe wore. At least a dozen more lay piled on each other.

Her brain screeches to a halt at the sight. There’s no reasonable explanation why Marco would be in possession of this, let alone multiple. 

She jumps at the sound of another door slamming in the hallway. Figuring she'd have plenty of time to think about this later, Sam pockets the chain and swiftly tiptoes to the exit. The door of the office opens just as her hand reaches out, ready to turn the knob.

The man RK punched in the face stares back at her, a dried trail of blood caking under his nose.

Sam curses her sudden streak of bad luck.

 

. . .

 

Tapping on her cheek wakes her up. "Wake up, detective."

Sam's head lolls to one side as the tapping continues. She keeps leaning away from it and sighs in content when the tapping stops.

A sharp slap sends her sputtering. Her eyes snap open and she jolts backward on instinct, nearly tipping over the chair she's now strapped to. Her vision is blurry, black spots dancing at the edge of it and a lightheaded feeling clings to her senses, making the room spin. Even through the haze, she recognizes the man hovering in her face.

Marco clicks his tongue, gripping her shoulder and steadying her. The dark, loathing look he gives her sends her stomach churning and her chest seizes further at the sight of two men exiting the room behind him, both with a gun tucked in the waistbands of their jeans.

"How our roles have reversed," Marco mutters, kneeling before her and waving her phone in her face — then promptly breaking the thin tablet in half. "Where's the girl?"

"Not here, obviously." Her blithe remark earns her another slap. Sam sucks in a breath and tastes a faint trace of copper lingering on her tongue — along with something she can't quite identify.

"Where's your partner, then?"

"You've got eyes,” she drones, clenching her jaw. “Look around." But past the sarcastic tone she's dishing out, her heart thumps heavily in her chest. How long had she been out for?

“You never struck me as the dumb type, you know,” Marco says, glaring at her as anger flashes behind his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to poke around the dark corners of my club.”

"And I didn't think you’d be stupid enough to start trafficking girls,” Sam mumbles back. Her tongue feels thick; it's like she's talking around cotton.

“I haven’t been,” he snaps, straightening out to full height. The tapping of his fingers against his thigh betrays the composure he tries to project. “That one simply got too nosy for her own good. Just as _you’ve_ been poking around business that isn’t yours, and now we’ve both got problems.”

Her heart hammers in her chest as he strides out of her line of sight. The scratching sound of a metal chair dragged across the room towards her sounds abnormally loud in her ears. Rather than let her mind wander at what’s likely going to happen in the next five minutes, Sam fixates on the black haired android now slumped against the wall to her right.

Dark blue liquid continues to drip down her chin, staining the front of her sequin dress. Idly, Sam thinks she looks like a discarded mannequin; the posture is too stiff compared to that of a dead human. It’s as though her joints locked in whatever position she deactivated in rather than falling in a boneless heap as a human would upon death.

“This happens more often than you’d think,” Marco tells her once he sits down, leaning forward on his elbows in the chair now across from her. “You’d be surprised at the number of androids that have fallen into my hands.”

Sam feels like she's slogging through a bog with the amount of effort it takes to think. “...the amount?” She repeats slowly, testing the words on her tongue. “She isn’t…?”

“The first? No. CyberLife’s bullshitting most of the country with their pretty speeches about deviant androids, but the rest of us? We know better.” His leg jitters up and down while he rubs his palms together. “They’re easy to spot once you know what you’re looking for.”

At the glazed, uncomprehending look on Sam’s face, he sighs and strides over to the slumped android, reaching for something tied around her neck. Sam hears a faint snapping noise and the next moment she blinks, a dainty, silver necklace is being dangled in front of her face.

“This symbol,” Marco says, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “Declares them as a friend. It’s how they identify each other now. How they know who to approach for help. They wear it as jewelry, graffiti it in easy-to-miss corners.”

Sam stares past the thin chain in her face, wondering how the hell CyberLife hasn’t picked up on the same trend. For an advanced tech company and one that’s practically omnipresent in all sectors of society, it seems like an easy task for them to do. Then again, she figures it’s why Marco and people like him have been useful to the NYPD all this time.

A quiet part of her brain reminds her that RK had a reaction to the symbol in the abandoned factory. He  _had_ recognized it — at least as far as the corrupted memory of it allowed. 

“Naturally,” Marco continues, interrupting her train of thought. “The trend is easy to capitalize on. Given that thirium supplies are a bit tight these days, I’m sure you can imagine why this android is priceless regardless of the state it’s in.”

It takes her a second to digest his words, to think past the nervous babbling leaving his mouth and the connections she’s drawing in her head. Her nose scrunches up once understanding dawns on her. “...You're disgusting.”

“I don’t make the demand, detective. I just satisfy it.” Marco pockets the necklace and returns to the chair across from her. "And you’re wasting my valuable time, so let’s get to business, yeah? I’m sure we can reach another understanding.”

She fixates on the gun he pulls out. The corners of her lips turn up in a sharp, wry smile. “You gonna shoot a cop, Marco? Make me disappear like those other two girls? That’s even worse than—”

Her words are abruptly cut off as he forcefully grabs her chin, fingernails digging into her cheeks and the palm of his hand covering her mouth. “I told you I don’t know where the hell those two are. And— _fuck!_ ” He recoils violently as Sam bites down on the fleshy bit of his palm. Her cheek flares with pain as he smacks her again, snapping her head to the side. By the time she looks back up at him, she’s staring down the barrel of a gun.

Her breathing slows until her lungs no longer move. She's been held at gunpoint before, it's nothing new to her — but she truly wonders if this is the last time. A scared person and an angry person holding a gun have two different triggers, two different breaking points — and Marco strikes her as the latter.  

Sam flinches when a shot goes off and warm blood splatters across her blouse.

It takes her a second to realize there’s no flaring pain anywhere on her body. She blinks as Marco drops in a boneless heap at her feet, revealing RK standing in the doorway with his arm raised. He coldly surveys the rest of the room, then pockets the gun in the waistband of his jeans.

Once the initial shock wears off, her shoulders sag as warm relief floods through her. Air whooshes out of her lungs in one fell swoop. "You're late," Sam breathes as he casually steps over Marco's body and drags his chair out of the way.

"As are you," says RK, kneeling in front of her. His eyes narrow at the red mark flaring on her cheek. "It’s been over twenty minutes.”

“I was kind of tied up.” At his flat look, she sighs and tries again with, “Did Emily get home?”

“Yes.”

"Did you report that she saw...?"

"Yes," he repeats, shifting to snap the zip tie around her ankles, then reaching around to snap the one around her wrists. "It's part of protocol."

"Why are you  _always_ so…” Sam thumps a weak fist against his chest. “Don’t drag her into this." 

"It's not my decision to make,” RK returns quietly, evenly meeting her glare. His hands slide up her arms, steadying her when she tips forward. “Nor yours.”

Sam’s glare lasts a moment longer before she deflates, too tired to muster up the anger necessary.

RK’s brows furrow when she tips to the side. One hand leaves her arm to firmly grip her chin and tilt her head back. “Your pupils are extremely dilated,” says RK, frowning. His eyes narrow when Sam sighs and leans into his hand, seeking the cold to soothe her feverish skin. “You’ve been drugged.”

“Is that why the room’s spinning?” Sam mumbles as her eyes slide shut. “Was wondering why everything’s been going fuzzy… and what the hell the taste in my mouth is.”

A sudden hum comes from the doorway and breaks her brief moment of peace. "Either you truly have a nose for this, or you're the unluckiest person I've ever met, Miss Hale. Trouble seems to follow you no matter where you go."

She groans at the familiar voice, raises her head and sends a tired look in Grant’s direction. “Did you get lost on your way here? You're late too, asshole.”

He merely smiles at her, though the usual teasing edge to his lips is missing. An aura of tension follows him as he strides into the room while tugging on a pair of gloves. “You left quite a mess on your way here, RK900. It’s rather unlike you — we have more clean-up work to do than necessary.”

“My apologies,” RK intones in a matter suggesting he’s not sorry at all. “Detective Hale’s chances of survival decreased the longer I remained away.”

“Is that so?”

“Without a firearm, her capacity for self-defense is hindered. Furthermore, it appears she’s been drugged.”

“She’s also sitting right here,” Sam grumbles, reaching up to rub the space between her eyes. “And I’m fine, thanks for asking.”  

“What was she given?” asks Grant, completely ignoring her and kneeling by the android slumped against the wall.

RK’s fingers return to her chin to tilt her head back once more, and the last vestiges of rational thought leave her when his thumb brushes her bottom lip. “Wh—” Her voice cuts off as he applies just enough pressure, urging her mouth to part. She sits motionless, heartbeat roaring in her ears as his thumb swipes the inside of her lip, then watches in a daze as he pulls his hand back and puts it against his tongue.

“A combination of synthetic drugs,” RK tells Grant a moment later without breaking eye contact with her. “Likely given to impair her judgment.”

The burn in her lungs reminds her to breathe. “D-did you just—”

"And the concentration of the dose?" Grant continues, completely unaffected by what just transpired behind him.

"Low," says RK. "Other than affecting her cognitive functions for the next six hours, I expect no long-term damage to be done."

“Well, it's a good thing we showed up when we did, then. The way these things go typically end in a staged overdose,” Grant hums. “How quaint. This one, though.” He clicks his tongue in disgust as he tilts back the android’s head with two fingers, careful not to get any thirium on his clothes. “Stressed itself to the point its processor melted. They seem to grow more creative with their self-destruction as time goes by.”

“Do you require assistance moving it to CyberLife?” Asks RK while Sam stares slack-jawed at him. And much like the exchange in the car earlier in the day, his lips twitch upward at her dumbfounded expression.

“No, the guys and I will tie up loose ends here,” Grant says, waving a dismissive hand over his shoulder. “Get Miss Hale to her apartment and await further orders as usual. And give me my gun back.”

As RK wordlessly straightens out to do as ordered, Sam’s brain finally catches up. “Wait, hold on. What about the red ice? I can’t just—”

“We’ll notify the department once we get this cleaned up,” Grant answers easily, casting a brief glance at the crates in the corner of the room.

“And the records of—”

“It’ll all be sent over for analysis. I assure you, our interests are in alignment here. It’s our thirium supplies that are often targeted, after all. Though I’ll admit," he says, eyeing the dead android. "This is rather cut-throat even by our standards.”

“And what about—” She’s cut off once more as RK kneels again, grabs her around the torso, and slings her over his shoulder in one smooth motion. Her limbs feel like lead, yet she still smacks at his back. “What the fu— I’m not a sack of potatoes you can just—”

“You're currently as useful as one,” RK interrupts, striding out the door without missing a step. His grip tightens on the back of her thighs. “I suggest you remain still, lest you wish to walk on your own.”

She wriggles and hits his shoulder blade with her elbow. “That’s what I’m trying to do!”

“I assure you, there would be no trying involved. Your motor functions are impaired.”

“You… you are unbelievable sometimes,” she hisses back, ignoring the snicker from Grant on their way out. "I swear to god..." 

 

. . .

 

By the time RK sets her down outside on the curb of the street, she feels like her brain has turned to mush inside her skull. The lights along the road and surrounding buildings bleed into one dazzling mosaic, blurred together so much that she doesn’t know where one ends and the others begin. The only solace she finds is the silence of the street around them.

 _This is way worse than being drunk_ , she resoundingly decides when the world tilts.  

RK’s hands rest firmly on her arms, keeping her locked in place when she sways. Even as the edges of her vision blur, she recognizes the mission mode he’s in; the focused look on his face and the way he visibly filters out anything that doesn’t strike him as relevant.

Which is why she wonders why he's staring at her as he is — some mixture of amused, concerned, and something she can't quite place. "The car will arrive in a few minutes," he tells her, letting go once he's sure she won't tip over at the slightest breeze.

"Uh huh," she mumbles, eyes half-shut. “Got it.” Then the moment she tries to take a step she tilts dangerously to the side. RK's hands immediately snap out to steady her again.

Sam groans and deciding to suck up her pride, takes a step to close the distance and rests her head against his chest. "Just... hold still, please." RK does so, motionless even as her fingers grasp at the fabric of his shirt around his waist, clutching it for balance.

After a moment, she pulls back and frowns at his chest. "Don't you breathe? I swear I've seen you do it before."

"It's only necessary when thirium alone is unable to cool my biocomponents," RK says quietly, though she feels his chest slowly rise in response.

"Wish I could control my temperature like that," she murmurs back, leaning on him again. "Cause it's way too fucking hot. God, I hate the summer..." The rest of her complaints slur off into unintelligent mumbling.

"The drugs in your blood are the cause of your increased body temperature," says RK, somehow understanding it anyway. "Not the current humidity levels."

Sam makes an exasperated sound against his shirt. "Thanks, Einstein. I couldn't tell."

RK's breath brushes the top of her head in a silent sigh. Then the buttons of his shirt brush against her cheek as he shifts, and a cold hand slides under her hair to rest on the back of her neck.

Sam's eyes slide closed while a content sigh escapes her lips. She presses further into him, wrapping her arms around his torso when the temperature of his body drops to match that of his hands. It gets to the point where it feels like she's hugging an ice cube, but by this point, she doesn't find it in her to care. 

"Nevermind what I said earlier. You’re amazing," she whispers as drowsiness settles in. “And… thanks. For coming back. People usually don’t."

The pressure on the back of her neck increases marginally. “You’re welcome,” RK murmurs above her. 

The last coherent thought to cross her mind is how calming his heartbeat sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! Hope y'all have had a good month.  
> Some notes: I'm gonna be participating in NaNoWriMo, so it's unlikely I'll be updating in November. That said, I hope to write enough so I can update twice in December.  
> Find me over on [tumblr.](http://www.vaniccio.tumblr.com) Cheers~


	8. every silver lining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you trust me?” She blurts out, searching his face.
> 
> “Yes,” RK says without hesitation. Then he pauses and gives her an almost apologetic look. “Insofar as I am allowed.”
> 
> There’s always an addendum, a downside to every silver lining. The warmth in her chest dims as she tries not to deflate.

**JUNE 10, 2040  
2:20 PM**

Sam wakes to the sound of her curtains being drawn. She groans as her head immediately gives a dull throb and buries her face further into her pillows, trying to stave off an impending headache by passing back out. The sunlight piercing her eyelids is relatively easy to ignore; she clings to the warm haze covering her mind by curling into herself and pulling the covers higher.

She's almost asleep again when the clink of a glass being set on her bedside cabinet chimes by her ear. The dry feeling in her throat has her instinctively reaching out for it.

Her eyes snap open when her fingers brush against skin rather than glass, and she freezes at the sight of a pale hand mere inches from her face. Slowly, her eyes follow the arm upwards to find RK staring down at her, blue eyes sharp as ice. Her heart stutters to a complete stop before bolting off, thundering in her chest.

"Why are you in my room?" she asks, doing a damn fine job of keeping her tone even. "This early in the morning?"

"Making sure you’re well,” says RK. “And it’s currently 2:23 PM. I recommend against sleeping any further.”

“It's _two_?” Sam jolts up and immediately winces as her head gives a sharp pang, protesting the sudden action. She squeezes her eyes shut. “Christ, that hurts... Why didn’t my alarm go off?”

“It did, though at the time I determined it would be better for you to rest.” At the blank look she gives him, he adds, “I disabled it at seven this morning.”

“Oh.” She runs a hand down her face, blinking the last bits of sleep away. “I don’t remember that. I don’t remember much, to be honest.” The pounding headache is arguably worse than any hangover she’s had. “What the hell did they drug me with?”

“A diluted dose of red ice,” RK tells her. The floorboards creak under his feet as he moves away to give her space. “You will likely experience mild symptoms of withdrawal today. Eating, however, will help you recover.” After giving her an evaluating stare, he steps towards the door. “Do you have preferences for breakfast? Or lunch, given the time?”

“No, uh. Anything’s fine, thank you.” Once she hears him walking down the small corridor to her kitchen and the sounds of a pan being drawn out from the cabinets, she sighs and falls back onto her pillows with a muffled thump. Seeing RK in her bedroom first thing upon waking up was a heart attack she could’ve lived without.

After another minute of staring blankly at the ceiling, she groans and throws the blankets back, swinging her legs over the side. And then she pauses to register exactly what she’s currently wearing. The old t-shirt and pajama shorts are definitely not what she remembers passing out in.

“Great,” she mutters under her breath as her brain starts making rapid-fire assumptions. 

 

* * *

 

The sight of RK standing in her kitchen and methodically cooking her breakfast is a sight that grows in oddity the longer she stares. Settled at the kitchen island with her elbows resting on the counter, Sam quietly sips on a mug of coffee while she watches him.

He’s not a household model like the PL series so he lacks the software which turns his machine-like precision into organic movement. What he _does_ have, however, is the cutting-edge integration software CyberLife installed to help him blend in. She finds it fascinating to see it kick in, to watch the hand rapidly cutting a tomato shift into a slower, practiced pace the moment he notices her staring.

Her lips twitch at the gesture. She’s tempted to tell him there’s no point in pretending — least of all around her — but decides against it.

“Your bird has already been fed,” RK says, carefully adding the slices to the pan beside him. “And given three treats.”

Sam shoots a glance over her shoulder towards the birdcage. “That’d explain why he’s so quiet. Usually he’s a pain in the ass to deal with when I wake up.”

“He was well behaved this morning.”

“Yeah?” She hums, turning back to the counter. “I think he likes you. More than I expected him to, at least. He’s rather fickle with who he grows attached to.”

“Given that all he requires is food and attention, he is rather easy to please.”

“Well," she starts, taking another sip, "That’s what most people need so I guess it makes sense.”

“Is it all you need, as well?”

Sam nearly chokes at the nonchalant delivery. Her gaze flies to RK’s back, and with a slight tilt of his head, she catches the sharp, teasing glint in his eye.

“No,” she says slowly, lowering her mug until she realizes he’s joking. “...But it will land you in my good graces.”

This time, RK hums. “Noted.”

Sam stares at him a second longer, bewildered. Everyday it’s something new to catch her off guard. She clears her throat. "So what exactly do you do all night? I assume you don't sleep."

"No," says RK, turning over the omelet on the pan. "CyberLife often sends me assignments to accomplish remotely."

"And when you don’t have any assignments?”

“I access the NYPD’s cold case files through your name.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Why? Just about all of them are dead ends. I think some have been there for decades.”

“They have,” he confirms. “Regardless, I appreciate the challenge they offer. The lack of conclusive evidence forces me to closely analyze what exists. Furthermore, I find it a preferable way of passing the time as opposed to simply remaining idle.” His gaze flickers to her when she remains silent. “I can, however, stop doing so if you wish.”

His initiative to get things done is something she can get behind. That said, she also recognizes the implications of his desire to learn even if it’s being reasoned away as a method of self-improvement.

“No,” Sam says after a beat of hesitation. “Keep sifting through them. I doubt anyone else is giving it a second glance. Have you had any breakthroughs?”

“Not yet,” says RK, seemingly satisfied and turning back to the stove. “But I will inform you when I do.”

Sam chews on her bottom lip as she stares at the back of his head, noting the way he seems to marginally relax at her express permission, shoulders loosening beneath his black button-up. The confidence in his voice doesn’t surprise her; she doesn’t doubt he’ll eventually reach some conclusion or find a piece of evidence a human officer overlooked.

And yet…

An odd feeling settles at the pit of her stomach as she glances over the kitchen. RK’s standard white blazer is neatly folded over the back of the chair beside her. There are no visible LEDs on him; the one he pulled out yesterday lays at the corner of the table, easily overlooked by a stack of magazines. Once again, if she didn't already know better, she'd easily mistake him for a human. 

Sam quietly sips at her coffee again, eyes sharp as she returns to observing the android and mentally filing away every odd detail she notices. 

 

* * *

 

For someone who practically has their phone glued to their person at all times, the disconnect left in its absence is sorely felt. Sam knows she can probably get a new one reimbursed through work but dealing with the paperwork necessary is not something she wants to stress over just yet.

And now that she finally has a moment to breathe, Sam realizes just how much the last few days have taken out of her. From one thing constantly leading into the next, she finds herself tense, full of restless energy and nervously waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She doesn’t know what to do with the free time. If RK notices her restless behavior he mercifully doesn’t comment on it, instead content to lounge about her living room while she paces aimlessly about the apartment. After rearranging her bookshelf and checking to make sure her pet’s birdcage is clean for the third time, Sam stops and forces herself to remain still for a minute.

When did relaxation start feeling like a chore?

Shoulders slumping in resignation, she sighs deeply and strides over to plop down on the couch beside RK. He spares her a brief, sideways glance before his attention flickers back to the tablet in his hands.

It's _her_ tablet, she realizes after a beat. "Are those the cold case files?" Sam asks, raising an eyebrow and leaning slightly towards him. The text and images flying across the screen shift too rapidly for her to grasp what he's looking at.

RK gives a nod. "Yes. These are from 2006."

"Aren't you able of remotely accessing all of those? Why use a tablet?"

"Viewing the files through this method offers a different perspective. I find it easier to follow the filing officer’s train of thought. Although, yes, this does force me to slow my analysis."

"This is slow for you?" She snorts, gesturing at the flickering screen. "And here I thought _I_ could read fast."

His lips curl into a small smile at that, eyes still glued to the screen. “In comparison to my usual speed? Yes, it’s rather archaic.”

Whatever he’s finding in the files holds his interest to the point where he doesn’t even notice her studying him; he’s got the same sort of single-minded focus of someone entirely engrossed in a favorite hobby. Reclined against the couch with one leg crossed over the other and chin resting in one palm, Sam's struck by how casual he looks. Just a few days ago he stood in her living room all but resembling a stiff cardboard cut-out.

And now?

She wonders at just how advanced his social integration feature is that it lets him blend in so quickly, so seamlessly. Sam’s eyes flicker across his face as she studies his profile, taking in the spatter of freckles visible across his cheeks.

“Do you require something, detective?” RK asks, attention still set on the tablet in his hands.

“Sam,” she corrects idly.

He pauses at that, lifting his eyes to meet hers. The hand holding the tablet lowers until it rests on his knee. “Sam, then. Is there something you need of me?”

She idly fiddles with a small ring around her thumb, her gaze flickering down at the device in his hand. Most of her apps and books are stored digitally on her tablet. After seeing how engrossed RK was in whatever he’s reading, though...

She shakes her head and stands up. “Nah, nothing. Sorry to bug you.”

 

* * *

 

Her laptop — when she finally digs it out from the depths of box sitting in the corner of her bedroom — may as well be a relic. It's functional, sure, but given how quickly technology advances she may as well be trying to conduct research on a toaster. After getting past the frustration of having to deal with the older piece of technology, Sam spends the better portion of two hours doing exactly the opposite of what she should be doing today: resting.

She makes sure her case files have been updated like RK said they are. She makes sure Byers was made aware of what happened yesterday. She makes sure Emily got home safely, and learns that the girl is scheduled to come in later in the week for a full interview. Once that’s all taken care of, she decides to indulge some of her own curiosities: primarily the ones sprung by her conversation with Kamski.

The news articles from 2038 are all familiar — a mix of national headlines and countless zingers from local Detroit agencies.

**Androids Infiltrate Stratford Tower: An act of terror?  
** _Unidentified androids hijack media to broadcast message_

**Androids Vandalize Central Park  
** _Two officers identify the deviant leader_

**Casualties in Android Demonstration  
** _Officers injured in confrontation with deviant androids_

Nothing in particular jumps out at her. Nothing that would lend weight to Kamski's words.

Sam knows the general timeline of events that unfolded in Detroit. Markus’ demonstrations escalated in scale every time the deviant androids went public until dozens of them marched in the streets, and that’s since been identified as the turning point for when the movement turned violent.

She remembers the chilling hush which fell over the NYPD bullpen as they watched the events live in the lounge room. Remembers the gut-wrenching, sinking feeling of dread that every officer seemed to experience all at once. ‘Oh, shit’ had been the prominent feeling that day despite all the pop-culture references made to a robot uprising — all jokes cracked in attempts to lighten the mood.

Her brows furrow further as she scrolls back up to look over earlier headlines. Household androids going missing. Gardeners, personal assistants disappearing. And then reports of break-ins and materials stolen from repair shops... with no casualties in any article. It doesn't take a genius to link all of the events together.

And yet, some of it still doesn't make sense to her. What was the point in turning violent after sparing lives and taking such care in avoiding casualties beforehand? A lack of patience? Desperation? Some other trigger? 

What did the hell did Kamski mean, 'what broadcasted wasn't the truth?' What was she missing? 

“Where is the charging cable for this?”

Sam glances up to find RK standing before her, a tell-tale red blinking light at the edge of the tablet in his hands.

"It's plugged into the side of the kitchen island over there,” she says, nodding her head. “Sorry there's no outlets closer to the couch.” Her gaze flickers back to her laptop, intent on getting to the bottom of her self-imposed case. “Any luck with any of the cold cases?"

"Some,” he tells her as he settles on the kitchen stool she sat at earlier. “Much of the available evidence is circumstantial. There isn’t much for me to work with."

“That’s why they’re known as cold cases. No leads to be found."

"Evidently not," RK agrees with a small sigh. The brief glimpse of unmasked frustration disappears as his attention settles on her. "How are you feeling?”

Sam shifts on the couch to make herself more comfortable. "Better. The headache is persisting, though.” She pauses for a moment, and seeing the opportunity, decides to voice a concern that had been quietly bothering her since the club. “I’m mostly still wondering about you having the permission to kill, to be honest. Grant didn't seem too concerned over it. Should I be worried?”

“I was acting within acceptable parameters,” RK tells her without missing a beat, instead brushing off some lint from his arm. “As the officer whose been assigned to me, I’m permitted to do whatever is necessary to defend you. Your life was in imminent danger.”

“CyberLife’s all about the ends justifying the means, aren’t they,” Sam mumbles under her breath, going back to scrolling through archived headlines. “Results oriented as always. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Do my actions upset you?"

“It's one less criminal dealing red ice to the city.”

“That doesn't answer my question."

“You’re an android,” says Sam, finally cutting a glance at him. “You killed three humans. Do you see the issue here?”

RK evenly meets her gaze from across the room.  “Are you afraid of me, then?”

Is she? Her lips thin as she mulls it over. Denying the statement would be a lie. Agreeing with it… would also be a lie.

"I don't know what to make of you," Sam finally says, putting aside her laptop to focus entirely on him. "You're a headache to talk with sometimes but you're a good detective. You've saved my life enough times and it's not that I'm afraid of you — I am, because I've seen you snap necks like kindling — it's just that I've grown to trust you even though I know I shouldn't. And that... I don't know. It is what it is."

He stares at her for a moment, and it’s the most frustrating thing in the world now to feel him evaluate her with his eyes, unable to see if her words affected him at all. His LED still sits where he left it, and she can’t quite tell if that’s what he wanted to hear or not. He simply inclines his head, and turns away from her.

“You shouldn’t use that device for much longer,” says RK. “The strain on your eyes won’t help with the headache.”

Sam’s gaze burns holes into the side of his head, expectant, but his attention remains solely on the tablet before him. She exhales loudly through her nose, then turns her own focus back to her laptop.

More research it is. 

 

* * *

 

For whatever reason, RK takes her ordering takeout for dinner as some sort of personal affront — as though she hadn’t praised his cooking hours earlier.

"That has over double the recommended calorie count," he informs her once she's settled at the kitchen island, rustling with the brown delivery bag and fishing out white plastic containers. "And triple the sodium."

"Really? You've got a calorie counter installed?" Sam mutters, trying to find the grilled chicken. Her mouth’s practically watering at the smell. "And it's takeout. Of course it's unhealthy. No one orders out when they want to be conscious of what they eat."

"I am more than capable of cooking a meal with the ingredients you currently have."

She snorts, setting aside some paper napkins. "You mean the grand total of rice, frozen veggies and bread? That doesn't seem very appetizing."

RK's hand reaches out to grab hers when she moves to stab a piece of chicken. "Please. I insist."

Sam stares at the hand loosely gripping her wrist, then blinks up at him with a raised eyebrow, bemused at the sudden streak of stubbornness. Normally she'd shrug him off and do as she pleases, but after a heartbeat, she rolls her eyes and gives a sigh. "Alright, fine. Prove me wrong."

He lets go, eyes alight with satisfaction. "Gladly."

As it turns out, having access to over five thousand online recipes is, indeed, enough to prove her wrong.

 

* * *

 

Awareness comes slow as though she's slugging through molasses, then all at once with her eyes snapping open when she realizes her heart is hammering away a mile a minute. Rain’s pattering against her windows and occasionally she’ll hear a neighbor’s dog barking in the alley down the street. By all rights everything seems normal, but her body is on edge and warning her of danger for a reason she can’t quite grasp.

Rather than second guess her gut reaction, Sam slowly reaches for the gun under her pillow, then carefully unfolds and climbs from her bed. Her clock reads 3:25 AM, red light shining in the darkness of her bedroom. She tiptoes to her door and listens, still as stone.

A soft voice comes from her living room — a voice she doesn’t recognize. Not RK’s. He never slept and had no reason to speak verbally if he was reporting to CyberLife.

Frowning, she slowly twists the door handle and nudges the door open one inch at a time, painfully aware of any noise she makes. A low, subdued whirring noise reaches her ears from the direction of her living room. She squints and cautiously steps into the hallway, gun lowered, but firmly in hand.

Sam’s eyes narrow at the figure illuminated by moonlight in her living room, kneeling by her coffee table. RK wouldn’t let anyone into the apartment without her permission even on the off chance it was a Cyberlife employee. Quietly, she edges towards the lightswitch in the hall and swipes it on.

A man she doesn’t recognize snaps up and stares at her like a deer in headlights. _Burglar_ is the first thought to run through her head, at least until she spots RK motionless on the ground by his feet. The thought sharply shifts towards something more sinister.

“You have three seconds to identify yourself,” Sam orders them quietly, centering her aim. "One."

The man remains still, wide-eyed for half a second more before his face morphs into a calm mask. "Don't move," she hisses the moment his hand twitches for something behind his back. "I’m not going to warn you again—"

She moves as soon as she sees his hand snap out, dodging right without thinking. A knife whizzes past her face, cold steel cutting a streak beside her left eye and leaving a crisp, stinging burn in its wake. Sam retaliates, ears ringing with the resounding bang of her gun going off. The man jerks back from the bullet tearing through his shoulder. Sam pulls the trigger a second time with more confidence when she sees blue explode and stain the couch behind him. Glass shatters as he falls through the coffee table — then remains still.

The silence which follows feels unnaturally loud. The man doesn’t get up again, and once she’s sure he’ll stay down, she scans the rest of her living room for any more threats.

The front door remains shut, but the window to the fire escape is thrown open, wind kicking up her curtains and rain staining the wooden floor. Sam keeps her gun raised as she approaches and after hazarding a quick glance up and down the fire escape, she grabs the windowpane with both hands and slams it closed.

Then she sweeps back to RK and kneels at his side, mindful of the shards of glass scattered about. "RK?" She jostles his shoulder, ignoring the dead android sunk through the coffee table and dripping thirium beside her. "Hey, RK?"

He gives no response. Sam's brows furrow in worry as she places her gun to the side to turn him over.

When she finally manages it, her breath catches. A circular looking disk is attached to the front of his chest, claws tearing through the fabric of his shirt and into the white plastic underneath like some sort of mechanical spider.

She has no idea what the fuck it is. She also has no idea how to turn it off, but RK's grimacing like he's in pain and if his LED were in it'd probably be blaring red. With no time for indecision, Sam sucks in a breath through gritted teeth and presses the leftmost button on a small, visible panel.

The spider whirs louder and claws itself deeper into RK’s chest. He arches off the ground, hands digging into the floor while flecks of blue seep through the front of his shirt. Sam frantically mashes the other buttons.

The spider stutters under the rapid onslaught of commands, then seems to loosen its grip before drawing into itself and falling to the side. RK's eyes snap open the second the device is off, his gaze locking onto her in the same breath his hand shoots out to grab her by the neck.

"Wait—" Sam wheezes, grasping his arm with both hands. The vice grip around her throat tightens in response and refuses to budge no matter how much she tugs. "Hey, it's me—"

His eyes are frantic, darting behind her, briefly lingering on the android smashed through the coffee table and then wildly taking in the rest of the room. His gaze lands on the spider beside him and he flinches back as if burned, staring holes into the device before finally fixating on her. His grip finally loosens as soon as he registers who she is.

“Jesus,” she wheezes, clutching her neck and gasping for breath. “It’s just me.”

“The deviant,” RK immediately demands, his voice distorted with static. “Is it—”

“Dead?” Sam coughs. “Yeah. I shot him twice. Did you just — did you just try to kill me?”

RK’s eyes narrow. Another low, mechanical noise comes from him and she jerks backwards once she realizes she can see right through the plastic to what’s inside his chest. He props himself up on his elbows, glaring at a spot beyond her.

“This body is damaged,” he murmurs.

“No shit,” Sam breathes, finally catching her breath. “You had the fucking face-hugger alien strapped to your chest.”

“The wiring to several biocomponents has been disrupted,” he continues, unfazed. “They must be manually reset.” He tries to push himself up to a sitting position, only to have his right elbow give out.

Sam jolts forward to pillow his forehead with her hand before he smashes his head into the side of the coffee table. The impact with the corner wood stings and she winces before lowering her arm to drape it across his torso. She pulls him to her and by the time she drags him to the other side of the couch, safe from the glass shards along the floor, RK’s face has settled into something between muted fury and frustration, lips pressed in a thin white line.

Sam helps him sit up. “You alright?”

“Yes. Thank you.” RK takes a deep, calming breath, then the skin on his hand deactivates and a large panel on his stomach slides open, revealing the complex wiring inside. The tubes, valves, and components intricately weave together to the point where it all reminds Sam of a human body, yet the steel color and low hum of electricity reminds her firmly that what’s sitting in front of her is nothing more than a complex machine. 

Sam sits back on her knees to watch as he works, equally transfixed by technological marvel visible before her and slightly uncomfortable at witnessing what feels like an extremely vulnerable moment.

Once that clicks, she drags her eyes away, instead focusing on the spider-like device sitting innocently on her thirium-stained couch. “What is that thing?”

“It’s a disruptor device,” RK intones from beside her. “One of Cyberlife’s models.”

Sam blinks. “ _CyberLife_ makes these?”

“Yes. The company holds numerous R&D contracts with the government.”

Sam stares at him, speechless. The military contracts don’t surprise her, really, but— “How the hell did a deviant get their hands on it?”

“I don’t know. The implications of the situation, however, are concerning.”

“That’s one word for it,” Sam mumbles, briskly running a hand through her tangled hair. “That thing looked like it was two seconds from carving up your chest into string cheese. What happened?”

His eyes narrow into slits, cold and cutting as ice. “They used a diversion.”

Sam opens her mouth to prompt him further, then she catches the intensity with which he glares at the device. His fingers continue to swiftly reconnect wires in another panel on the side of his chest, but even so, he appears to hunch into himself. She’s never seen him so rattled.

A frown tugs at her lips as suspicion sparks in her head. “Have you seen this device before?”

His fingers still as his gaze slides to her. “Yes.”

Her frown deepens. “...Has that device been _used_ on you before?”

At that, RK remains quiet. Sam feels something stir in her.

“All Cyberlife models go through routine quality assurance tests,” says RK, voice clipped once he sees her expression darken. “It is company policy.” And from the sharp, pointed look he gives her, she concludes that _that_ particular strand of conversation isn’t going to end anywhere pleasant.

Sam sucks in another deep breath, then dusts herself off and stands, but solidly files the topic as something to bring up again. She gestures at the android crashed through her coffee table. “I think I recognize this model. It’s old, isn’t it?”

“It’s a WR600,” says RK. “Model 778 114 231.”

“How do you know their number?”

“An android’s serial number is always etched into a facial component for identification. I can see them.”

“That’s… kind of weird,” she says, grimacing, and the action finally reminds her that _she’s_ injured too. She carefully dabs at the cut on her cheek, feeling it stretch the short distance from her cheekbone to her ear.

“It’s not a deep cut,” says RK, finally getting to his feet and straightening out. His expression is unreadable as her searches her face. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. It could’ve been worse, all things considered. But…” She stares down at the android awkwardly sprawled before her. “Isn’t this the guy that delivered the take out from earlier?”

RK spares him a brief glance. “I don't know. I didn’t see them when you answered the door.”

“Well, if it is, then...” she exhales noisily. “Great.” Once again, she finds herself wondering just how deep the shit she’s gotten herself into actually goes. To be attacked in her own home? She tries not to think of the outcomes in which she _didn’t_ conveniently wake up in the middle of the night.

“As I said, the implications of this are concerning,” says RK, taking a single step forward before stumbling. Sam’s hand snaps out to grasp his arm. RK freezes, practically a statue in her grasp, before slowly straightening out.

She eyes him warily. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

He inhales through his nose. “There are a few wires which still need to be reconnected. They are located in my spine.”

"Okay."

When he remains quiet, it finally clicks. “Oh. Okay,” Sam repeats slowly, then gestures at the kitchen island. “Take a seat and maybe I can help.”

RK obeys, settling on the seat she sat earlier in the morning, stiff as a board. Sam stands behind him and tries not to stare at the smooth, broad expanse of his back as he removes the tattered remains of his shirt. Her eyes follow the spatter of freckles dotted across his upper back, down his spine — and then she blinks rapidly the moment it all deactivates to leave shiny, white plastic in its wake.

A thin, long panel slides open at the base of his skull and Sam’s stomach drops at the mess of wires she can now see. It reminds her of what under her old desk used to look like — every wire tangled into an indiscernible, terrible knot, each cord identical to the other.

She takes a deep breath, suddenly regretting her offer. “I really hope there’s nothing too important connected to these.”

“Only my thirium regulator and processor,” comes the droll response.

“Right,” she repeats, deadpan. “Nothing too important.” Then, in a more strained voice, “They couldn’t have color coordinated these?”

“The disconnected wires should be visible. Attach the leftmost one to—“ he goes silent when Sam gingerly grasps the thin wire at the base of the bundle.

She recoils as if burned, briefly seeing his hands gripping his knees. “Sorry, was that the wrong one? Shit, it’s—“

“It’s fine.”

“—probably best if we just—“

“No.”

“—call Grant to—“

“ _No.”_

She swallows at the force behind his refusal. “Alright. If you think I can do it then… just tell me if any of this hurts, alright?” She carefully grasps the wire with her thumb and index finger again, painfully aware that she’s sticking her hand into his damn spine.

There’s a good reason why she never went the EMT route. She’s good at protecting lives, sure, but saving them through surgery? Putting bodies back together? Absolutely not. And now—

“Sam.”

She jolts, realizing she hasn’t moved. “Right, sorry. Left to middle?” And being so focused on not screwing up, doesn’t notice him peering at her over his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she breathes, steeling herself. “Here goes.”

Of course, somewhere throughout the process she _does_ fuck up, because there’s _also_ a good reason why she’s not an engineer. All of RK’s skin flickers before deactivating, receding to a point on the back of his skull. 

“Incorrect connections in that particular module will disrupt my ability to maintain synthetic skin,” RK says after a heavy moment of silence, sitting ramrod still. “I apologize.”

Sam clears her throat, then resumes her work. “For what?”

“For my default appearance.”

“So you look like a machine for once,” she says, tilting her head and gingerly reconnecting the final wires with a _click_. “Doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s not like I don’t know what you are. And… to be honest, seeing you like this is... grounding. In a way.”

The brief silence which follows once again has her thinking she’s caught him off guard. “I don’t follow.”

She chews on her bottom lip, thinks out how to properly say what she means to say. “You blend in with us so well that it’s terrifying sometimes,” she murmurs. “You’re an autonomous, intelligent form of life separate from me — from anyone. And even though you were created by us, in our image, you’re not us. It’s… well, seeing you like this — seeing that you’re not invulnerable? It’s both a comfort and a worry. I’m sorry if that comes across strange.”

“No, it’s…” His tilts his head an inch. “Thank you for clarifying.”

“Sure.” And then, feeling the same daring urge she’d had a few days ago, she gently rests her palm flat against his shoulder. The plastic under her skin feels warm to the touch — warmer the longer she leaves her hand there. RK’s head dips slightly, and when she shifts to better look at him, she finds his eyes closed and a content expression on his face.  

Sam feels her cheeks grow warm and removes her hand so the panel can close. “Okay,” she murmurs, trying not to think too hard about why her heart's hammering away a mile a minute. "You should be good. Give me a moment and I should have a shirt that'll fit you."

As she steps around the kitchen island to the hallway leading to her bedroom, out of the corner of her eye she sees RK's skin flicker back on, rippling over his body like a sheen of water.

 

* * *

 

Sam leans her head back against her bathroom door with a thud. Her cheek stings like hell from the cut but given the range of injuries she's already received this week, it's barely a scratch in comparison.

The home invasion rattled her more than she led RK to believe. Somehow, an android breaking in as opposed to a human feels more ominous. The latter she can fight off. The former? If she didn’t have RK or her gun…  

It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. Once the deviant finished whatever plans he had with RK, he likely would've came for her next.

“I’m in real deep shit, aren’t I,” she mutters to the ceiling, then takes a deep breath. The first aid kit under her sink is a standard issue white box. Finding a shirt to fit RK takes a minute or two of digging through the bottom of her cabinets. 

By the time she heads back into the living room, she finds RK scowling at the takeout she'd ordered earlier, hand hovering before his mouth as though he'd just taken a sample. He glances at her as she walks in. "This food is contaminated."

"Contaminated?"

"Yes," he says, lowering his hand. "There are low amounts of rat poison present."

Sam passes him the dark blue, loose t-shirt. He pulls it on with ease. "And suddenly I'm thankful for you pushing to cook tonight," she says, staring at the takeout boxes. "How many times are you gonna save my ass, I wonder?"

"As many times as necessary," says RK, taking the first aid kit from her and setting it on the kitchen island. "Sit."

She does as he asks, and in the back of her head, wonders at the reciprocity seemingly embedded into their relationship. Last night he saved her ass at the club, this night she saved his from the deviant. She just spent ten minutes putting him back together, and now he's cleaning and sewing up her cheek.

And around and around they go.

"Tell me if this stings," RK says, gently holding her chin and tilting her head to the side. The antiseptic being dabbed against the cut _does_ sting, but Sam merely bites her bottom lip and keeps quiet as he works.

In some strange sense of acceptance — or resignation, really — she finds herself thankful for the back and forth element in their relationship. Below the snark and underlying tension there's always been a thread of understanding between them since day one. It’s comforting, in a way, knowing what to expect, and perhaps that's why he's eased so seamlessly into her routine.

_Or perhaps it's the social module he's built with at work_ , a quiet part of her brain pipes up.  _This is just a job, remember?_

"Are you alright?" RK asks quietly, nudging her chin to face him.

"Fine," she mumbles, reaching up to lightly scratch at the bandage now plastered to her face. "Just... this is a mess, isn't it? A dead android in my table, blueblood soaking my couch. I’m pretty sure my neighbors heard the shots and my bird—"

Her bird. Her heart lurches. She'd completely forgotten about her pet. "Is...?" Sam’s eyes dart to the birdcage in the corner of the living room.  

The hand holding her chin moves to rest on her knee. RK remains quiet, but it’s enough to confirm her fears.

"God damn it," she breathes, swallowing tightly around the knot lodged in the back of her throat when the corner of her living room remains deathly silent and still. "The deviant killed him, didn't he?"

"Yes. Shortly after they disabled me."

Sam reaches up to run both hands down her face. "I should've shot him three more times,” she mumbles under her breath, shooting a withering glare at the motionless android through her fingers.

“It wouldn’t have changed what already happened.”

“It would’ve made me feel better.” The knot in her throat swells until she feels a familiar burn behind her eyes. “...Sorry. I don’t mean to — I just... I had him for nearly six years. So this is a bit...” A shaky exhale leaves her lips as she takes a moment to compose herself. “Such an attachment must seem silly to you, huh?”

“No,” says RK, quiet as he watches her. “Your grief is understandable.”

“Is it?” She asks, eyes unfocused as she stares at the remains of her coffee table. “Do you understand loss? _Can_ you?”

“Must I experience something to understand it?” RK returns coolly, understanding the underlying question. “Your attachment to the animal is expected. Logical, even.”

“Grief isn’t…” Sam shakes her head. She doesn’t want to get into this right now. “Nevermind. Thank you for understanding.”

RK leans back, brows furrowed. “You misunderstand me. Grief is a response to the loss of an attachment. Developing attachments — preferences, even — is not something limited to humans, and although I don’t process grief as you do, I do regret what happened. It shouldn’t have. The failure is mine, and for that I apologize.”

Sam stares at him. It’s the most she’s heard him say and in every word except ‘yes’, he all but confirmed he understands loss beyond the objective stance. Which should be impossible _._ And yet—

“Do you trust me?” She blurts out, searching his face.

“Yes,” RK says without hesitation. Then he pauses and gives her an almost apologetic look. “As far as I am allowed.”

There’s always an addendum, a downside to every silver lining. The warmth in her chest dims as she tries not to deflate. “It’s alright. Thank you."

RK’s eyes soften as he nods back at her. Sam gives him a small smile, savoring the quiet moment between them. Then she sighs and gestures at her living room. “We should probably get Grant in here, huh?”

 

* * *

 

“You look terrible,” are the first words to come out of Grant’s mouth when she pulls open the door. He gives her a once over, then brushes past her without hesitation. “Though yet alive, I suppose.”

“And what’s _that_ supposed to mean, exactly?” Sam crosses her arms, feeling a hint self-conscious in her pajamas in his presence. Did the man sleep in business casual attire? “I’m not really in the mood for any more bullshit tonight. Fair warning.”

“That would make two of us. The last ten hours have been rather trying on my patience.”

Sam’s guard immediately goes up at the thinly veiled irritation in his tone. “Have you been out all night?”

Grant gives a thin, razor-sharp smile over his shoulder. “Between framing your mess from last night as a spat between two of the city’s gangs and ensuring the NYPD receives the evidence we _want_ them to receive, I’ve had little time to do much else. Which, while we’re on the topic — you should be receiving a call from your chief rather soon on the matter.”

_With what phone?_ She wants to say, but bites her tongue. “I’ll keep an ear out.”

“Good.” Grant holds her gaze for a second longer — as if he expects her to say something — then diverts his attention to the task at hand. He paces about her living room with the same measured pace of a caged, disgruntled tiger, and the high-strung atmosphere is not something she's used to seeing around him. For once, Sam remains quiet and saves the biting remarks.

"When did this happen?" Grant asks, glass crunching under his boots as he moves to kneel by the deviant.

"Two hours ago," RK answers as Sam comes to stand beside him.

"Your report on this came one hour ago. Forty minutes, even," Grant notes, checking his watch. "Why the delay?"

"We didn't want to disturb your beauty sleep," Sam pipes up, eyes narrowing at the thinly veiled accusation. So much for minding her tongue. "And I didn't want you rolling up on the apartment complex, dragging my neighbors into this mess on the chance that more deviants showed up."

The unimpressed stare Grant rewards her with is almost enough to make her wince. RK's also side-eyeing her from his spot by her shoulder. She's not sure where the sudden flare of defensiveness came from.

"This was used on you?" Grant asks after a lengthy silence, gesturing at the inactive, mechanical spider innocently sitting on the couch.

If she wasn't standing so close, Sam would've missed RK tensing at the question. "Yes. I've already run diagnostics and repairs. All of my systems are operating at normal capacity."

"And your memory cache?"

RK hesitates again. "Several sequences were corrupted and fractured due to the injection of foreign code. I've isolated the file to prevent further damage."

"Wonderful," Grant mumbles under his breath, straightening out. "You've already tried deleting it, I assume?" At RK's stiff nod, Grant clicks his tongue in disappointment. "Return to Cyberlife for a full systems diagnostic, then. You know the procedure."

"Of course." As RK moves to step around her, Sam's arm snaps out to stop him.

"Wait a minute." She's not sure what procedure they're discussing, but alarm bells are going off in her head. "You're just leaving? What if others show up?"

“That won’t be a problem," Grant answers while RK stares down at her.

Her head swivels in his direction. "Not a problem? How the hell do you figure—"

"Let me finish. You'll be joining him, Sam."

Sam's mouth clicks closed. Her arm drops to her side. "Oh."

"Indeed," Grant intones, pulling out a pair of black gloves from his back pocket. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have work to do." She doesn't notice the other agents in her apartment until one is passing right before her and by that point, there's at least five of them bringing in suitcases and other bits of equipment. Each one has a weapon holstered as though they're expecting a fight. 

And she's still in her pajamas. "...Let me go change," she says, low enough so only RK can hear. "And I'll be right out." 

He dips his head towards her. "I will wait outside, then."

 

* * *

 

Once she’s got a pair of jeans on, Sam sits back against her bed and stares at the pager resting in her palm. She doesn't know what the hell to do with it. Taking it to Cyberlife's building seems like a stupid idea no matter how she spins it. What if they have her go through some beefed up security to get into other parts of the building? What kind of excuse could she give them?

She can't exactly leave it laying around her bedroom, either, even if it's buried under piles of clothes. She doesn't expect Grant to stroll into her room since there's no reason to, but she can't completely rule out that he won't go poking around just for the hell of it.

"So much for a third option," Sam mumbles, moving to open a window.

In a way, hearing the device shatter upon hitting the alley floor below feels oddly and intensely satisfying. After the events of tonight — and at least for the moment — she’s not very keen on the idea of helping deviants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my usual betas. Sorry this took so long to release.


	9. all roads lead to rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam stares at the shiny CyberLife ID placed in her palm. The brand new plastic is smooth in her hand, and she grips it hard enough that the dull edges dig marks into her skin. She hadn't agreed to Grant's offer, but this feels like an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've hesitantly tacked on the expected amount of chapters for this fic. I'm looking at about 17 total, give or take a few.  
> Also, the 'romance later we gotta Build Up That Plot first' tag? We're finally there, fam. The pre-bake timer has gone off.

******JUNE 11, 2040  
4:34 AM**

Sam leans back against the leather car seat, arms crossed as she stares listlessly out the window. The sun’s yet to rise, but New York is rarely quiet. Even at the ass-crack of dawn people are out and about, getting ready to start their Monday.

She, meanwhile, feels like she's stuck somewhere in last week.

"There's little traffic at this hour," RK notes idly, sitting across from her.

“Give it a half hour,” Sam mumbles, unfocused. “It’ll all be gridlocked.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees him cast a sidelong look at her. "You'll be allowed to leave CyberLife once the matter of your safety is settled."

"And what about you?"

"This body will either be repaired or replaced once my code is verified. It will... take time."

Her stomach lurches at the pause. She remembers the programming pad in Grant’s hands and how reassuring it had been knowing a human was capable of keeping her android partner in check. It feels like ages ago. And now, the thought of someone poking around in his code has her stomach churning with unease.

"You said CyberLife makes those spider things,” Sam says quietly, hands fisting in her lap. “Military contracts and all that."

"I did."

"Why are they being tested on you? You're a civilian model. Designed for police work, sure, but still civilian. You're not part of the GI line."

RK's expression reveals nothing as street lights cut shadows across his face. "All of CyberLife's products undergo quality testing. One machine testing another."

"Except you're not just a machine," Sam murmurs back, a sharp edge creeping in her tone as the automated car takes a turn. "My coffee maker is a just a machine. That spider _thing_ in my living room is just a machine. You..." She swallows and looks away, unable to hold his gaze. "...You're not that."

Air brushes past her face as RK slowly exhales. She already knows what he’s about to say even without looking — they've gone through this conversation before.

It's at least another fifteen minutes to the building. Right now, it feels like an hour away. Sam watches water droplets slide across the window in front of her while the low hum of the car fills the silence between them.

“I apologize for hurting you,” RK eventually says, and when she turns she finds him fixated on her neck. “It was unintended.”

“It’s alright.” She reaches up to rub at skin. The bruise doesn’t register until she applies a slight bit of pressure, and now that she’s thinking about it, a sliver of fear crawls up her spine. "Will any others come after me?"

"Yes," returns RK, uncharacteristically quiet.

Sam's hand drops back to her lap. “Great.”

He watches her as if waiting for something. When she doesn’t speak, his attention turns to the window. “I assume this incident offers you a better understanding of my purpose.”

"What's there to understand?” She mutters, sinking further into the seat. “All this did was drag me further into this… this _war_ CyberLife has going on in the shadows. Whether I want to be part of it or not."

"And don’t you?" RK asks, and although he doesn’t turn to her, Sam can still feel the weight of his attention. “You have yet to shy away from what's expected of you."

"Compliance doesn’t mean I support what we’re doing.” It comes out sharper than she intends. “And I think you know that distinction as well."

RK’s eyes narrow in the reflection of the window. “You disagree with all of this, then.”

“Yes. No,” she backtracks, then brings a hand to cover her mouth. For the first time in a while, she’s uncomfortable with his ability to read her like an open book. “Does it even matter? Not like I can act either way.”

RK’s stare is heavy, calculating, and her brain finally catches up to the words she’s saying — to what she’s explicitly admitting to. Sam clears her throat and averts her gaze. She crosses her legs and pointedly ignores the weight of his stare on her cheek.

“You’re scared,” murmurs RK, a strange edge to his voice.

She doesn’t look at him. “You should be, too.”

There’s a brief pause. It's enough to catch her attention. Carefully, Sam asks, "Don't you ever think about what comes after all this? What will happen to you once you complete this assignment?"

“My original purpose is to assist with law enf—” He cuts off. Something flickers across his face, a brief flash of uncertainty, but it’s all gone so quick she nearly misses it in the dark. The next time the space between them is illuminated by a passing street light, a careful mask of neutrality rests on his face. “I will do whatever I’m assigned to do."

And there it is again — the hollow, pre-programmed responses, the sense that someone else is speaking through him. Sam leans forward, and this time, RK is the one to avert his gaze. She tilts her head and hedges, “So you _have_ thought about it.”

RK doesn’t respond.

Sam wets her lips. "And you’ve reached the same conclusions that I have.”

“Discarding me would be a waste of resources,” he intones, the words strangely brittle. “As it would be, discarding you.”  

Sam’s smile is tight. “I thought you said you’d never lie to me.”

The electric hum of the car fills the space between them and somewhere in the distance, she hears the familiar horn of a subway train. Sam watches as RK thinks, far faster than she'll ever be capable of, and although his expression remains carefully blank, the slightest narrowing of his eyes informs her when he stumbles upon something he's not particularly happy with.

When he finally looks at her, part of her is relieved to catch a glimpse of steel in his gaze. "Once we get to the building, it's likely I won't see you again until I'm reset.”

"Reset? Like... factory reset?"

"Almost. Recall I once told you that my memories are uploaded to an external server over specific intervals. I will retain the memories from before tonight's attack, but everything afterwards will be left out for caution's sake." He glances away again, and when he frowns at the floor, realization hits her like a freight train, strong enough to knock the air out of her lungs.

He wouldn’t remember any of this.

"I have no memories of previous wipes," RK continues on after a pause, unusually quiet. “But I’ve always been aware of the gaps left behind.”

“And you never questioned their existence?”

He leans forward then, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “I had no reason to, even when you asked about them before. They were irrelevant and had no impact on my performance."

Sam hesitates. “And now?”

His eyes lift to hers, bright blue, clear, and determined.

 

* * *

 

The lounge that Sam is led to on the fifth floor is so cold it has her wondering if the air conditioner malfunctioned. Her hands tighten around the mug of coffee, siphoning warmth into her frozen fingers.

She chews on her lip and takes to pacing a hole in the expensive-looking rug covering half the room. The lounge, at least, has floor-length windows that give her one hell of a view over the bay. Across the water, the skyline of Brooklyn remains a blur of twinkling lights while the first signs of daybreak creep into the sky across the horizon.

It’s a sight that people would pay millions for — _do_ pay millions for — but it's something she finds she can’t fully appreciate at the current moment. The room she’s in is all sharp edges, bright fluorescent lights, and black modern furniture, exuding wealth in a way that keeps her from forgetting where she is.

And suspiciously empty, which sets her further on edge.

Sam stops pacing and casts a glance over her shoulder towards the door. Poking around the building seems like a sure way of landing herself in a bad position, so despite her impatience at having been all but dropped here like a piece of luggage, she sets her shoulders and resigns herself to more waiting.

She settles in an armchair by the window to watch the sun rise and is fully zoned out by the time the door finally opens.

Grant meets her surprised gaze with a sharp, polite smile. "Miss Hale."

Sam eyes him warily as he walks in and helps himself to a mug of coffee.  "Finished with cleanup already? That was quick."

"It wasn't a difficult scene given past experiences." His back is turned to her as he adds in a cube of sugar. Part of her is irrationally annoyed to learn he drinks his coffee as she does hers. "You’d be surprised at how messy some places can get."

"Really."

"We even took care to avoid sparking suspicion with your neighbors,” he continues despite her flat tone. “Turns out the walls in your apartment are rather thick. Imagine that." When he turns around, there's a tired, one-sided smirk playing on his lips.

Sam keeps her eyes trained on him as he walks over to settle in the arm chair across from her. "When will I be free to go?"

"Free to go?" Grant repeats with a lilt of amusement, raising an eyebrow. "You make it sound like we've got you under arrest."

" _Grant_."

His amused expression doesn’t slip, but at her prompting look he sighs and pulls out a sleek, black phone from his pocket. "Your phone was broken by that club owner the night before," Grant says, leaning back once she moves past the moment of hesitation and takes it from his hand. "Given that it happened while you were working for us, CyberLife has decided to reimburse you."

Sam turns the phone over. It's a top-of-the-line model, worth three times as much as her old one. "How generous. I’ll assume it already has a tracker installed."

He snorts at her blatant suspicion. "For your safety, yes. You've become a target, Sam. That phone will directly contact my entire team and I if you ever have need of us."

"I have RK for that."

"Do you?" Grant returns easily, raising a brow. "RK900 is one of our more advanced androids to be sure, but I would advise against relying on it too much. Machines tend to have a habit of malfunctioning when we need them the most — as seen last night."

He was right and they both knew it, but rather than admit it and fuel the smug look on his face, she instead pockets the phone and clears her throat. "Am I free to go?"

When he merely sips at his coffee without a care in the world, Sam taps at her leg and doesn’t bother to hide her impatience. “Well?”

Grant carefully lowers the mug to his knee. "How much is your life worth to you?"

She stares at him. “Excuse me?”

“Must I repeat myself?”

"No, I heard you. Just — _what?_ "

"It’s a question I find myself considering," Grant continues on, eyes sharp and half-lidded as he watches her. "Lately I’ve been wondering whether I should take the effort in warning you of your stupid behavior or following protocol and finding another officer at the precinct willing to work with us."

_This is what your carelessness gets you_ , she thinks as her hands clench on her lap. _What happens when you don’t think through your actions._ "I’m still not following.”

“Sam.” Grant sounds almost disappointed. “Please. I’d rather not waste our time.”

“Then if you’re going to accuse me of something,” she says coldly, “Get to it already.”

He watches her a moment longer, then hums, raising his mug again. "Very well. Who did you contact for help?"

So he did know. Denying anything would just be digging her grave further. She knows full well how interrogation methods go and she’s fairly certain Grant’s got her cornered. But admitting it?

She leans back against her chair and crosses her arms. "You didn't track down the number?"

"We were unable to. Which, as you can imagine, only has me more suspicious of the entire situation. Who did you contact?"

Safety. Protection. A way out. Things Kamski offered her and things that felt further out of each every day. She wonders if he even had the ability to deliver on that promise — or the desire to, at that. He struck her as someone who pulled strings behind the curtain, someone who would let others take the fall for him.

_No one’s going to look out for you except you,_ Sam comes to the quiet realization.

"Kamski," she eventually says. "He gave me a tempting offer a few days after your visit."

Both of Grant's eyebrows shoot into his hairline before he rolls his eyes and huffs in exasperation. He takes another sip of coffee, visibly annoyed by the reveal. "Kamski... of course it was."

"You're not surprised,” she notes, eyeing him warily. “Why?”

Grant's attention is settled on something beyond her, eyes unfocused as he stares at a point in the bay. "Not at all surprised, no," he says, distracted. "We've suspected that he's not quite in line with the company's goals — and he's not the only one."

"There's divisions in CyberLife?"

"Several," Grant reveals, much to her surprise, then seems to mentally backpedal. "Not that it's an issue you need to worry about." He leans to the side to place his now-empty mug on the nearby table, then settles forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "As for the offer he made you, allow me to present one as well. You have a knack for this type of work. If you're receptive to to the idea, you're welcome to a spot on my team."

Sam stares at him, mouth agape. _Are you kidding me?_ "I thought the entire reason I got pulled into this is because you needed an active officer."

"We do," Grant nods. "But after all of this, perhaps. It's an option for you to consider."

And suddenly, she's angry, because the choices she's been given thus far haven't been choices at all. "As opposed to my other stellar options? Disappearing once the job's done or suffering an unfortunately timed accident? Thanks," she hisses. "I really appreciate the opportunity."

He flashes her an easy smile, fully at ease despite the spike of hostility. "I'm the program director for the RK900 division, Sam. Not just some grunt. You’re resourceful — you could have a future at CyberLife. And we take care of our own."

“Like you take care of your androids?”

His lips twitch. “Now that’s a question I didn’t expect to hear. Although…” He leans back, and the amused glint in his eyes sets her teeth grinding. “Perhaps I should have. Regardless, you don’t need to give my your answer today. Take some time to think it over.”

The automatic refusal is on the tip of her tongue, but she pauses. She's doing what Grant wants her to do already. The offer would do nothing more than make the position she’s already in official. Accepting it, however, would make her a hypocrite. She really would be a corporate gun for hire, protecting company interests rather than the public good. And yet...

"Take some time," Grant repeats, watching the hesitation playing out on her face. His smile widens as though he’s heard her conflicting thoughts. "I think the idea will grow on you."

Her expression shutters closed. "Am I free to go?"

“By all means,” says Grant, gesturing at the door.

Sam unfolds from her chair and makes it halfway to the door before she remembers why she’s here in the first place. "When will I see RK again?"

"Stop by in the evening. The repairs should be done by then."  

Sam glances back at him. He’s gazing out the floor length window, tracking the path of a freight ship entering port, and although Grant’s dressed professionally as he always is, there's creases in his clothes like he hasn't had the chance to change them in a couple days. The bags under his eyes seem a little darker. He looks comfortable enough that he might just fall asleep within minutes.

She wonders if he’s aware of the change in his posture and how easily she can read him right now. Maybe he doesn't care, or maybe he's just honestly that tired.

"You should get some sleep,” she says. “Staying awake for over 36 hours is bad for you — you might start making stupid mistakes."

He startles. When he turns to look at her there's a flicker of surprise that flashes across his eyes, and she has her answer. Sam stares back at him, and feeling that the atmosphere in the room has gotten weird, gives a curt nod and turns on her heel.

 

* * *

 

She takes the metro straight to the NYPD building rather than back to her apartment. A communal shower was still a shower and she kept spare clothes at the station regardless.

Whatever moment of peace she's expecting, however, is broken the second she steps foot inside the building. The reception staff waves Sam in once they recognize her, but it's a whole other story to get past the swarm of activity in the bullpen. She sidesteps past a group of detectives huddling around a table while also keeping an ear out for any updates on what's happening. Byers' glass cubicle appears to be another hub, and she sees the chief pacing behind his desk while being debriefed by two investigators she recognizes from the homicide division.

Getting to the women's locker room is easier once she's clear of the main floor. Sam breathes a sigh of relief once she closes the door behind her and reaches her personal locker.

"Tell me about it," comes an accompanying sigh in the next row, joined by the rustling of clothes. "It's like a madhouse out there right now."

Sam pauses, halfway through pulling a spare shirt off a hanger. "Alex?"

The rustling stops. "Holy shit, Sam?" A scuffle of boots comes from the next aisle before Alex appears, wide-eyed at her appearance. "I've been trying to get a hold of you for the past day! What the hell? You haven't picked up any of my calls."

"My phone got smashed," Sam explains with an apologetic look. "Sorry."

Alex runs an irritated hand through her wet hair, incensed but visibly relieved to see her. "I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“Any reason I wouldn’t be?”

“Yeah, it’s the reason for all that commotion upstairs.” At Sam’s blank look, she continues with, “They found Brayson and Hills dead last night."

Sam pauses halfway through lifting her shirt. "What?"

Alex leans on the locker next to her. "Remember how I said those two hadn't come in to work in a few days? Brayson's neighbor called in reporting a weird smell coming from his apartment. Someone went to go check up on it and found him dead on the floor. Same case with Hills. The chief's ordered us to basically check house with everyone that has called out sick within the past two weeks."

“Was it homicide?"

Alex shakes her head. "Don’t know yet. The coroner's finalized report still has to come in, but from what I've heard, the prevalent assumption right now is that they were both poisoned. Homicide upstairs is considering the chances of someone out there targeting officers. _So_ ," she emphasizes with a pointed look, "You can understand why I freaked out when you didn't pick up your phone."

"Well, shit," Sam says quietly, still mentally reeling while also piecing bits together. RK had told her the takeout she'd ordered contained trace amounts of rat poison. The deviant who'd broken in was certainly dead-set on killing both of them — and she remembers Grant mentioning an accomplice to the serial killer she'd stumbled upon days earlier. And now this?

"And hey, what happened to your face?" Alex asks, leaning in to inspect it. "That looks fresh."

Sam's hand reaches up to touch the cut. "Shit went sideways at a club yesterday. It's fine."

“Is that — is that a _bruise?_ ”

“I’m fine, Alex.”

"Are you? I don't remember you getting so many injuries on the job before."

"That makes two of us," Sam mumbles. "But I'm fine. I promise." 

From the frown on Alex’s face, Sam gets the feeling she’s going to push the subject. But her shoulders drop and she shakes her head. “Alright. Just… try to be more careful when you go back out there. Between these murders and everything I’ve been hearing on the news, I’ve got a bad feeling.”

_If only you knew the half of it,_ Sam almost says and stops at the last second. “I will. You too, okay?”

Alex purses her lips and hums. “Yeah, about that? I’ve got a briefing that I’m actually, uh,” she checks her wrist, “About ten minutes late for. So I _might_ be losing an ear pretty soon with the talking to I’m about to get.”

“And yet you still don’t seem worried,” Sam snorts, draping a pair of clean pants over her arm. “You haven’t changed since the academy. I don’t know how you get away with half of what you do.”

Alex flashes her a coy grin and a wink. “Why, now that’d be telling.”

Sam lightly swats at her arm and feels a knot in her chest slowly ease, influenced by the easy-going nature of the woman beside her. She misses the days when they could talk freely, without some other calling dragging them away. When Alex leaves, the feeling slowly creeps back, and Sam can't help but miss the simpler days when things weren't all so complicated.

 

* * *

 

Byers, in comparison, looks ten years older than when she last saw him, age lines sharp across his face. "I received the report from CyberLife about the narcotics you uncovered," he starts, leaning forward. "We've done some preliminary digging on the data you collected. Turns out the supply chain we cracked down on a few years ago has resurfaced."

Sam clicks her tongue. "How bad is it?"

"We came across names of some of the city's executives. Take a wild guess."

She blows out air through her nose. "Sounds like a bad day."

"To put it mildly," Byers grumbles, sitting back in his chair. "But there's still enough for us to go on — for you to make use of."

“What?” Sam raises an eyebrow. "You want me to work with the narcotics division?"

"No. You're still going to be working with that android CyberLife's assigned to you."

Sam stares at him, idly picking at the skin around her right thumb. Something in Byers' expression tips her off: perhaps the flicker of resignation, perhaps a brief flash of guilt that tightens his face before he blinks it away.

"Did you know?" she asks, bypassing subtlety and decorum for the sake of finally getting a straight answer. "What they'd have me do when you gave me that assignment?"

At first, he doesn’t react. Sam wonders if she’s finally crossed a line, whether she should’ve buttered him up before putting him on the spot, but after a few seconds of staring, Byers’ entire body shudders as he exhales. His gaze flickers from the cut on her cheek to the lingering bruise around her neck, before settling on a spot over her shoulder. "Yes," he says. "I did."

Sam feels the venom she's suppressed begin to blossom and slip past the close-fisted cage she'd put it in. "So you gave me the job _knowing_ that I would chase the leads I found."

"I specifically gave you other assignments to focus on. I thought the string of missing people would keep you occupied. Keep you from getting entangled further in this mess."

"Except it just dragged me further in.”

Byers closes his eyes and raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, head tilted down as if pained. "Yes. Because they saw past my attempts, it seems. I'm sorry, Sam. They promised me none of the officers I assigned to them would be harmed."

"And you believed them?" she asks, incredulous. The news of Brayson and Hills feels especially heavy in the air between them. Whether it’s at his actions or the flimsy apology, she doesn’t know, but the spark of indignation inflates. "Even before all of this you had to have known their track record with—"

"False promises? Yes, you'd think I'd know better by now." He shakes his head and clicks his tongue, leaning back in his chair until it creaks from his weight. Sam watches as he chews on his cheek, his gaze stubbornly set on the activity in the bullpen below them.

A familiar weight of resignation threatens to overtake the righteous anger she feels. "They promised you something else, didn't they?"

He still doesn’t look at her. "Funds for the department. Enough to cover all the divisions we have struggling to make ends meet. New equipment we sorely need. The entire package."

"So they bought you." The words taste like ash on her tongue. It's validation, but it feels bittersweet. 

A wry smile pulls at Byers' lips. "It sure seems like they did, doesn't it? But no, Sam. I told them they could take their funds and shove it up their asses when they first came to me with the proposal. Then a week later the mayor comes in, pitching the same tune in a much less suggestive manner. These connections that CyberLife has? They're not people I can deny."

A strangled laugh escapes her. She's not sure why she finds it funny. "It's no excuse to throw any of us under the bus, chief." _You’re responsible for us. We’re supposed to trust you._

"It isn't," he agrees before he finally turns to face her. "But this? This is an opportunity. A way to put CyberLife's money to use. Plenty of wealthy individuals have got their fingers on this new supply chain, and normally they'd be beyond our reach. The android you've got assigned to you is our ticket in."

_And you still want to use me. Use RK. You’re not sorry at all. Not really._ Sam’s stare is hollow. "I don't follow."

Byers leans back to type something up in his terminal. A few clicks and a holographic block of text appears over his desk. He turns it to face her. Sam stares at the fancy, neon floating lettering of a dinner invitation, complete with time and place, dress attire, and... hosted by the Bancroft Group.

"Bancroft?" She repeats, subdued.

"Yeah, imagine that." Byers grunts. "Their CEO is hosting a sort of congratulatory dinner for Elijah Kamski, likely in relation to CyberLife's success earlier this week. Makes no sense to me since they're competitors, but you know how it is in the corporate world. Bottom line is there's people in attendance that we want our hands on."

"So you're sending _me_?"

"And that android. If there's any evidence to be found, it'll sniff it out." At Sam's silence and hesitation, Byers leans forward again to pin her with a pointed look. "I'm not going to let red ice supply proliferate in the city again. If we have the chance to stop it early, then we’re taking it. "

She stares at the holographic lettering on his desk. Of course she doesn't want another red ice epidemic in the city, but... "This event isn't for another two weeks. The hell am I supposed to do until then?"

Byers raises an eyebrow. "You want paperwork?" At her flat, unchanging expression, he sighs. "I can give you some old cases to look over if you're that determined."

"Why not more missing people assignments?"

"Because I don't want you getting shot again," says Byers with another pointed look. "Nor do I want to give CyberLife another excuse to throw you in harm's way. Just," he waves his hand, "take this time to relax, alright? You never did take those days off after you got stabbed."

Sam's eyes narrow in suspicion. "And if I don’t?"

"Right now I'm _politely_ asking you to take a vacation," he responds dryly. "I could do it less politely, if only for your sake."

"A bit late to be concerned over my well-being," she mutters under her breath as she stands from her seat. "But alright, fine."

She makes it four steps before Byers clears his throat. “Sam.”

Pausing at the door, she stops to look over her shoulder. He's still at his desk, but now raising his hand, palm open. “Your gun.”

She blinks at him. “You’re kidding me.”

“No, I _know_ you. You’re going to keep working until someone takes the option away from you.”

Her face slides into a neutral mask at the infuriating, knowing look he gives her. She returns to his desk and carefully unholsters her gun, staring down at him as she does so. “Do you want my badge, too?”

Byers slowly inhales as though the question was a physical blow. “Depends,” he says, evenly. “Are you offering it?”

Sam stares down at him. The impulse to tear the golden badge off her belt, slam it on his desk and walk out without a second glance is so, so tempting. Her hands clench.  

She walks out without another word.

 

* * *

 

A glimpse of a familiar face brings Sam to a halt outside the NYPD building. Emily's settled under the shade of a tree by the street corner, both hands holding an iced drink. She looks different away from the dim lights of the club. There’s bags under her eyes and her clothes are creased much like Grant’s earlier, but she doesn’t have the same bone-deep exhaustion weighing her down. Even so, she doesn't notice Sam approaching, a far-off look in her eye as she stares at a spot on the asphalt.

"Emily?" Sam comes to a stop a few feet away before hesitantly joining her on the bench. Emily blinks as recognition registers, and Sam tries not to wince at the guarded look that immediately comes up on the girl's face. "How are you?"

Emily gives a half-hearted, stiff shrug. "Fine. All things considered."

"I was told you came in for a deposition this morning. Did that go alright?"

"It did." The conversation feels painfully stilted. "The officer asking me questions was really nice about it." A pause, then, "Nicer than the CyberLife guy, anyway. He gave off a bad vibe."

Sam closes her eyes. Reaches up to rub the space between her brows. Emily watches the action with a keen eye. "You know what's going on, don't you?"

"To a degree," Sam admits quietly. "I'm sorry you had to see that yesterday." _I'm sorry you got dragged into this._

Emily glances away, then. She idly sips the iced drink in her hand, and the calm, deliberate way she nurses the silence between them reminds Sam that she once mentioned her family is full of police officers. Of course the girl would know the techniques they use to invoke guilt.

Emily leans back against the wooden bench and waits until the bus before them drives away to speak. "I dropped my KNC internship."

Sam frowns. "Why?"

"CyberLife offered to pay off my student loans and future tuition in exchange for doing so. That guy I mentioned? He was very convincing with the offer," says Emily, a bitter tinge souring her words. "He had a way of... putting things into perspective."

"Because their suggestions are never just that," Sam mutters. "Was the agent Grant Russeto, by any chance?"

Emily blinks. The accusation in her eyes sharpens. "Yes, actually. You know him?"

"Well enough. If he threatens you again, call me."

Emily’s expression becomes guarded. "You know, something tells me that would be a bad idea. If you know their agents by name, I get the feeling calling you would only make things worse for me."

At that, Sam’s lips pull into a wry smile. “Humor me at least.”

She presses her card into Emily’s hand before the girl can refuse, but the moment they part ways Sam’s smile drops. That assessment of her character hits way too close to home, and not for the first time, Sam wonders if she's still the good guy in all of this — or if that possibility even exists anymore.

 

* * *

 

It’s nearing seven by the time she heads back to Staten Island.

"Agent Russeto asked me to pass this to you if he was otherwise preoccupied during your arrival," the secretary in the main lobby demures. "It will let you reach the second level of labs downstairs."

Sam stares at the shiny CyberLife ID placed in her palm. The brand new plastic is smooth in her hand, and she grips it hard enough that the dull edges dig marks into her skin. She hadn't agreed to Grant's offer, but this feels like an answer.

_Nothing is ever just a suggestion with them._

Nausea threatens to rear its head as she stares at the profile picture of her on the card. It's recent. It had to have been constructed with their AI programs — the last time she sat for a photo was months ago.

"Do you need a route to the lab you're looking for?" The secretary asks, either not caring or not bothering to comment on the heated glare on Sam's face. "I can code it in for you."

"No," Sam says, pocketing the card. The black and white lanyard hangs out. "I know where to go." And somehow that sours the taste in her mouth further.

Her, Byers, Emily — all of them caught in CyberLife's web. All faced with choices that weren't choices at all. She finds herself wondering at the extent of the company’s reach as she heads towards the lower labs.

The splendor of the building's spacious atrium is lost on her.

A mental map forms in Sam's head as she tacks on more individuals. The city's mayor. Potentially the entire council, if not the majority. She wonders about their influence over the state's government, as their grip on the federal level is all but guaranteed. (She remembers the controversy surrounding President Warren.)

The media is part of it. Their suppression of deviant events would otherwise be impossible. _They hold defense contracts,_ RK had told her. Military. 

The chasm in her chest grows with each mark she etches in her head. CyberLife's reach went beyond their money — the social capital they've since built with it towers over her like a behemoth. Contracts upon contracts with all sorts of influential, powerful people linked together in a sprawling network. The knowledge of competing factions within that network does little to soothe her nerves.

She takes a shuddering breath and leans against the nearby wall, resting her forehead on her forearm. Dimly, she realizes she's two seconds away from having a full blown panic attack in the middle of CyberLife's basement — of all the places to finally come to terms with her situation.

A strangled laugh escapes her.

_Breathe_. It's RK's voice in her head. _There is no immediate danger._

Sam sucks in a deep breath and counts to five. She repeats it once, twice, enough times until she no longer feels three seconds away from falling apart at the seams.

The hallway before her eases back into view, and once it does, she realizes she'd stopped in full view of the floor's break room. Two people are settled within: one slouched on a couch by the vending machine in the corner, the other slumped in a chair and resting their head on a table.

It's unlikely they saw her. Sam takes some comfort in that, though in the back of her head she's sure her near breakdown was recorded somewhere on the building's security footage. The two employees show no reaction as she passes, and she finds some comfort in seeing a glimpse of something relatable — of seeing two overworked employees even here trying to catch a wink of rest.

Then she spots the tupperware of food. Small steam puffs swirl with the cold air blowing from the AC vent in the corner. There’s a fork lightly grasped in the man’s hand, but the mashed potatoes it's meant for are untouched.  

Sam comes to a dead halt. Neither of the employees react to the hiss of the automated door when she steps inside.

"Sir?" She calls, approaching the man sitting alone at the table. She reaches to shake his shoulder. He doesn't stir, merely tilts to the right until the momentum builds enough where he collapses to the floor.

Sam freezes at the loud thump and scraping of the chair, her eyes darting to the black security camera nestled in the corner. She maintains eye contact with it before kneeling down to press two fingers against the man's neck.

No pulse.

She checks the man slouched on the couch and finds the same result. And yet, no security guards come rushing into the room. She sees no one on either end of the white, stretching hallways and only hears the low whir of the building's air conditioner.

There's an almost painful, acute awareness at the lack of a firearm on her hip.

She could turn around and report to the lobby, but she knows RK's lab room is just down the hall. If the building's security was compromised, then so was the building’s database. RK’s core programming and memories.

Her feet take her towards the lab before she even processes the decision. The white noise in her ears crescendos as she crosses the silent, blinding white hallways.

“—where’s the list?”

“We both know I won’t tell you that.”

Sam pauses just outside the door when she reaches it, brows furrowed at the voices coming from inside. She recognizes Grant’s casual lilt. The second voice, however, throws her for a loop.

“Then tell me why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head.”

“Because if you do,” Grant drawls, the smile in his voice slightly strained, “Then that registry is uploaded to every police precinct in the country. That seems a bit counterproductive to your plan, now doesn’t it?”

There’s a shuffling of shoes and the click of a safety being pulled back. Sam's mind races with indecision before she holds her breath and ducks inside, only to immediately freeze at the sight that greets her.

RK turns on his heel to train a gun on her the moment she steps in. Sam's eyes flicker to Grant. He’s slouched against a computer terminal, gripping at a dark, red stain forming on the side of his abdomen.

“Sam,” he greets, his lips pull into a one-sided, strained smile.  “Impeccable timing as ever.”

Sam’s gaze drags back to RK. He’s not wearing his usual outfit, instead donning casual wear — dark jeans and a jacket. “While I’m sure Grant probably deserves a bullet,” she starts, deliberately conversational, “This seems… sudden.”

Grant gives a wet, throaty laugh. “I’m wounded by your lack of concern, Sam. Truly, wounded.”

“Clearly not enough if you can still make jokes,” she mumbles under her breath, eyeing the red staining his shirt. _Shit_ , she thinks as her police training kicks in. _That's too much blood._

“What are you doing here?” RK asks, ignoring Grant. He keeps the gun trained on her.

She steps further into the room, hands raised in the universal gesture of peace. “Picking you up like I was told to, remember? What are _you_ doing?”

RK’s gaze flickers back to Grant. The cold, clinical detachment with which he stares down at the man sends goosebumps down her skin. The two times she’s seen it on him always preceded a death. “Finishing something that’s been a long time coming.”

“That doesn’t help me understand at all.” The blood pooling by Grant spikes a new wave of unease. He'd bleed out at this rate. “Help me out, because right now I’ve got about a dozen scenarios going through my head and none of them seem quite right.”

“I assure you, none of those will be correct,” Grant chimes in, smiling despite the blood in his mouth. “I thought we'd programmed you with better manners, Connor. Won't you introduce yourself? Or has deviancy degraded those as well?”

Sam’s heart thuds loudly in her chest. “Connor?”

The android in front of her remains stoic, but she’s already starting to spot the minute differences. Chocolate brown eyes stare back at her — not the clear blue she’s used to. Her mouth goes dry.

“An introduction would be unnecessary,” says Connor. “We've already met.”

_We have?_ Her mind races. _When—?_

Then the door behind her slides open, making her jump. Connor's arm snaps up in the same second, fixing his aim in the same moment she spots a familiar white jacket from the corner of her eye.

The reality of the situation snaps into place so suddenly that she feels sick.

“RK800.” RK — and she _knows_ it’s her RK — steps forward until he's shoulder to shoulder with her. There’s a gun in his hand, too, trained directly at Connor. “You’re due for immediate deactivation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my betas.


End file.
